The Boy in Yellow
by nofacenix
Summary: When Harry abandons the light during the Battle of Hogwarts, he is labelled a traitor and a coward. Foes become allies, friends become enemies, and both sides grow desperate. Voldemort sets his sights on Harry as his most valuable weapon. The dark may be his lifeline, but Harry should beware its venomous bite. [Dark!Harry, Angst/Mental Illness, Slash, AU/Post-DH, Weekly post]
1. Chapter One: Hero

**Author's Note: **_This is AU from the moment Harry holds the Resurrection Stone in the Forbidden Forest. I've always wondered what it would have been like, standing there with the pressure of millions, if not billions of lives. Logically, Harry understood that one life sacrificed for the good of all is the best outcome. But emotionally, how does a child who wishes to live, willingly walk to their own death? Dumbledore took that choice from Harry, and so he thought there were no other options. If only he realised that there is always a choice, even if bound by shackles. _

_Thank you for reading. Please leave a review and let me know what you think. _

_I hope you enjoy this chapter and I'll see you next time!_

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

**Hero**

Those wisps, those eyes, they lance him like hot needles. He quickens his steps, chest pounding, mouth dry. There's a deep shake within his legs as if his bones were vibrating, throwing him off kilter, but not enough to make him stop. Nothing could make him stop. Not now.

Once he saw the fork in the road, he realised the battle was over. When the path to his death deviated, he knew he would fail. Because any person faced with their own mortality would never hesitate when offered salvation.

The battle against the dark was lost, because Harry Potter was running away like the coward he was.

Even now, a thin smile tugs at his face. He has never understood Pettigrew more than in this very moment, blindly stumbling through the Forbidden Forest. The ghostly faces of his parents, his godfather, his teacher, he sees them in the dark, always smiling, eyes full of love. Eyes that lance like hot needles.

A hoarse sob escapes him, and it takes him by surprise. He stops, mid-step, muscles tense.

Around him, the forest is still and silent. The battle is far behind him now. He raises his wand on instinct, but he doesn't cast anything. He just stands there, sweat trickling, hands shaking, sight blurring.

Are they dead? Did he kill them?

A shuddering intake.

_No hesitation, Potter. _

His feet stumble on.

* * *

There is something following him.

It has been following him for quite some time now. He's long past caring in his exhaustion. Leaning his back against a petrified tree, Harry closes his eyes to rest. There's a shake that hasn't left him since he betrayed the light. It rattles his insides even though he's overheated.

He hears a voice and it takes him a moment to realise it's his own. When he opens his eyes, it's pitch black he sees. The moonlight kept at bay by the impenetrable canopy of the dense forest. His lips are moving of their own accord and he feverishly grapples at the ground as if he were drowning.

As his voice gets louder, his words become clearer.

Burning wetness stains his cheek, drips to the soil, an uncontrolled flood. The boy hunches over, bowed to the ground, hands clawed, digging, gripping for dear life.

But it's no use. Only the dead can hear him and they have no use for apologies.

* * *

When he opens his eyes, he can see. But there's a sick, heavy green that settles on everything like toxic mould. The sunlight has little presence here.

Harry sways to his feet and shuffles on. He's delirious now, he knows that, because the dead walk with him like a silent congregation. They all smile, laugh, and look to him with such warmth. Harry finds them hateful.

How many days has it been? It feels like weeks. Months. Years.

Last night, the pain from his scar gave him a fitful sleep. There was a joy foreign to him, a wonderful, giddying kind of joy. At its peak, he emptied his stomach, so nauseous it made him like too much cake. It was the only time the dead lost their smiles.

* * *

In his dreams, he sees them fighting. All of them fighting so desperately.

In the ruins of the castle, when things are calm, Hermione and Ron wonder aloud if he's alive or dead.

Ginny is full of fury, a fury that alights her face and quashes her grief. She stands at Neville's side as he takes the helm of the battle. The Snake Killer, courageous and stony, wielding the sword of Gryffindor in his charge.

Luna is the only one that meets Harry's eyes. She mouths something to him. Something true and painful. Her gaze does not judge.

* * *

In daylight, he finds a road and an empty house. He decides to rest before continuing.

As he sates his thirst in the kitchen, he glances out at the forest. For the briefest of moments, he thinks he sees the dead standing in the tree line, watching him, even though he has long abandoned the Resurrection Stone.

"Don't follow me," he says aloud, and the ghosts dissipate into the gloom. Instant regret strikes like an arrow. "Wait-don't-" He reels back into himself, heavy with shame. _Don't leave me alone_.

One foot after the other. There's no going back. Only forward.

This is the last time he's ever going cry, he vows, and it's a vow he keeps for the next five years.


	2. Chapter Two: Rock Bottom

**Author's Note: **_Trigger warning for mentions of alcohol abuse and vomiting._

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO**

**Rock Bottom**

The man paces his office, restless. He rolls his wand between both fingers and thumbs as if he were rolling a cigarette. On nights like these, he's often tempted to pick up a smoke or a drink and dive into a new addiction. A crutch, oblivion, how nice that would be. Even for a moment.

He pauses by the window and glances out. Still raining. It was raining that morning as well. When the first echoes of violence struck the warm spring air. Five years on and he can still smell the wet soil, along with the stench of death.

"Neville?"

He jerks from the window, heart thudding. A quick glance behind and he visibly relaxes. "Ginny...you scared the shit out of me." He twists his wand and lets out a hard breath.

Ginny Weasley raises a brow as she drops into his office chair. She grabs the report off his desk and idly flips through it. "Nothing new...as per usual..." The red head clicks her tongue.

"No, nothing new. But nothing is good." Neville gives his lieutenant and friend a tight smile and turns back to the window.

"How do you figure?" Ginny asks, tone dry.

"Nothing means there's no-one dying, Ginny."

There's an irritated sigh behind him. The creak of the chair spinning from side to side. "I don't like it. It's been months since we last saw any Death Eaters. Longer still since they've attacked anyone. Something big's coming. Neville. I know it."

The Snake Killer's fingers turn white around his wand. He rests his forehead against the cool window pane and closes his eyes. After a moment of silence, he finally responds. "Sometimes, I imagine he's just on the other side of his window. And all I gotta do is open it and reach through. But even in my fantasy, I can't. I'm just rooted to the spot. Frozen. And I'm just confused and terrified and furious and-"

"Neville." A warm hand rests on his shoulder. Gently pulls him away from the window.

He turns and faces his friend, gives her a weak smile. "Sorry. I know you hate being reminded of him. I just..." Lips twist at the red head's stony expression. "Sorry."

Despite her stoic countenance, Ginny's brown eyes burn with a pure, clean fury. The kind of anger that cleanses than embitters. She gives her comrade a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and nods. "I'm about to head off to the meeting. Are you going to join us?"

Neville lowers his eyes, stomach churning. He gives a reluctant nod. "I better. McGonagall would be disappointed if I didn't go."

"You _are_ her right hand, Neville," Ginny says, shifting on her feet impatiently. "I know today's going to be hard, especially at the Memorial Service, but we all need you with us."

The man frowns, though he gives another slight nod. "Alright. I'm right behind you," he says, softly.

As he follows the woman out of his study, Neville Longbottom takes another glance out the window. For a heart-stopping moment, he thinks he sees Harry Potter standing in the street, barely discernible in the flickering street light. And he's almost certain he sees the same figure disappearing as Harry often did under his Invisibility Cloak.

* * *

When was the last time the ground was solid beneath his feet? He wonders this as he leans against a brick wall. The cobblestones spin in a dizzying arc before resetting and spinning again. Every time he moves his head, bile rises up the back of his throat.

There's someone beside him, touching his waist. At first he thinks it's help. But when they disappear, so does the weight in his pockets. He can only hope that they left him his wand.

The next spin takes him to the ground, knees banging off the cobblestones, hands scraping along the wall. His breath comes heavy and laboured as he tries to keep the nausea at bay. Vomiting might help. He's heard that from someone. Was it Gideon? Or Jobe? Ah fuck it.

It comes in a hot, acidic wave, splattering his front and the ground before him. His hands slip off the wall and into the fetid puddle. Harry distantly notes that it's all liquid.

An ear shattering crack jerks him around, causes him to smash his head into the wall. Ears ringing, Harry lets out a loud groan as he clutches his head. That sounded like a gun...or a car backfiring...could it be...?

It doesn't take long for him to pass out. And when he does, it's bliss.

* * *

The next morning, he wakes in his own vomit, now dry and crusted over. He has no time to react before the first hard throb of pain erupts in his head. It's a good pain though, not the sickly kind from his scar. It's the kind of pain Harry rather welcomes, if he were to admit it.

The spring sun is strong and bright, the heat sending a frenzy of flies and other such insects to keep Harry company. The streets are quiet as it usually is at this time of day. Most muggles are at school or work. _Most _muggles that is. Gideon and Jobe would be panhandling outside the train station or getting high in Faulkner's Park.

"Nothing better to do", they once told Harry, "and nothing we'd rather do".

Harry picks himself up with a muttered curse, not bothering to brush the dirt from his vomit-soaked clothes. He checks his pockets and his fingers find the familiar wood of the wand tucked in the back of his jeans. Draco's wand, to be exact, but he doesn't like to be reminded of its previous owner.

With some labour, he fights against the lingering nausea and staggers out of the alleyway. He's in Aldeford, a nothing town in a nothing part of the country. It's the kind of town that has a pretty face, but rots from the inside. Corruption, addiction, crime, and poverty runs rampant in Aldeford, but if there's anything the English are good at, it's how to ignore a problem.

Harry found himself here on the night of his escape, half-dead and delirious with fever. He doesn't remember the events that led him to this backwater town. When he finally came to his senses, he found himself in a small room in a bed and breakfast that smelt rather pungently of talcum powder and roses.

Margaret Aldeford, of Mrs. Aldeford's B&B, is a prickly woman with a soft heart. She recognised a soul in need and let the boy stay without paying while he was ill. Now, he worked for his food and board, running chores and cleaning the establishment for the old woman.

Harry grimaces when he wonders how Margaret might react to his current state. It has been an issue before, but whatever Harry did in his own time was none of the old woman's business.

He approaches the B&B now, a massive brick building with white trim around the large windows. The garden that encircles the building is beautiful and abundant, vines creeping up the face of the B&B as if left untended. But knowing Margaret, everything was grown to plan. While appearing wild, it is a meticulously crafted wilderness.

Harry smiles despite himself and he lets himself in through the main entrance. The lobby is cool and the smell of roses linger in the air. Thankfully, no guests nor old woman meets his entrance, so Harry quickly steps towards the stairs. A long hot bath is much needed.

"Tom? Is that you?"

Harry freezes halfway up the stairs. Behind him, Margaret appears, arms akimbo. He senses her presence before even laying eyes on her. He turns, reluctantly, and prays that the woman doesn't notice his soiled clothes.

"Mrs. Aldeford..." he says in greeting, forcing a smile.

The old woman has none of it. Stern grey eyes flit over his clothes and she clicks her tongue. "What a mess you are! I should have you thrown out!" She frowns and beckons the raven haired man impatiently. "But as it were, you have a guest."

"A...guest?" Ice grips Harry's heart, freezes his organs. He grasps the railing as he's overcome with a sudden dizziness.

A tall, handsome man glides in from the drawing room, dressed in an impeccable black suit. His all-too-familiar white hair is slicked back, pale face expressionless. A mirthless smile touches his lips as he approaches the bottom stair.

"Hello _Tom_. I think you have something of mine."


	3. Chapter Three: Shield

**Author's Note: **_Trigger warning for mentions of suicide and alcoholism._

* * *

**CHAPTER THREE**

**Shield**

"There's been sightings," Ron Weasley growls, knuckling the table for emphasis. "Sightings from _legitimate _sources. How long are you planning on ignoring them?"

Kingsley Shacklebolt and Minerva McGonagall exchange looks. The latter clears her throat. "This has been known to us for a while, Mr. Weasley. Now if you could please sit down-"

"I'll sit down once you tell us what the fucking plan-"

"Ron!" Hermione Granger grabs at her boyfriend's elbow and tries to tug him back to his seat. The red head lets out a grumble and drops down, ears as red as his hair.

Kingsley turns his deep, sombre gaze to the people around this ancient table. They were all currently in his office at the Ministry of Magic. Old and new Order of the Phoenix members look back at him, all eyes full of expectations. The Minister sighs and leans back in his seat. This is going to be a long night.

"As we all know, Harry Potter is the last Horcrux. Killing him is paramount, yes, but he has protection." Kingsley makes sure to hold each every gaze upon him, not only as an acknowledgement, but also as a way to share the burden of his words. One man cannot rule alone, lest he go mad. History can attest.

Of the Weasleys, only Arthur, Molly, Ron, and Ginny are present. Percy is away on Ministry business. Bill and Charlie are on their own respective missions, and George hasn't been to one of these meetings in quite some time now. Kingsley knows better than to question it. They all do.

Also present are Hermione Granger, Rubeus Hagrid, Aberforth Dumbledore, Luna Lovegood, and of course, Neville Longbottom. All other Order members are at their assigned stations.

While unexpected, Aberforth's sudden desire to re-join the Order was met with much enthusiasm. To have a Dumbledore back in their forces was a much needed motivator for a wounded army.

As for Neville, he had quickly replaced Harry Potter as the face of the movement. The Snake Killer, the True Chosen One, the Loyal, the Hero, label upon label was rained upon the boy, until he was forced to become a man practically overnight.

Kingsley looks upon Neville with much affection. The brunette doesn't meet his gaze. Instead, he's staring blankly at the fireplace, seemingly troubled by his thoughts.

"What kind of protection is it?" Hermione asks, notebook and quill in hand. She gives the Minister a critical glance, as if she were studying him.

"We are not certain, Ms. Granger," McGonagall answers for him. The headmistress seems as troubled as Neville, as she always is whenever Harry Potter is brought up in their meetings. Kingsley suspects she may still care for the traitor.

"If we were to strike now, we would be ill prepared and wholly uninformed." Kingsley steeples his fingers and rests his chin upon them. "We are currently at a fragile equilibrium with the dark. One defeat is enough to topple us and we cannot afford to lose a single fight. Remember this."

"Then at least have surveillance!" Ron spits, fists banging against the table. "That traitor could be planning something. Maybe he's already working for them. I don't think we should just let him do as he pleases-"

"Ron, will you _shut the fuck up_?" Ginny snaps, eyes flashing dangerously at her brother.

"Oh, still protecting your _boyfriend_, are you?" Ron shoots back, standing so suddenly his chair skids back.

"Say that o_ne more fucking time_, I dare you!" Ginny's chair also skids back and topples with a crash.

"ENOUGH!" Neville shouts, both hands flat against the table and his attention now fully on the proceedings. "That is _enough_! I'm _sick_ of hearing you fighting. All of you! I'm sick of just sitting here, plotting and making plans but never doing _anything_. Do you know how many people have died since Voldemort and his people made their escape five years ago? _Do you_?"

Silence rings. Ginny and Ron give Neville a guilty look before returning to their seats. Molly gives her children a withering look and they quickly avert their gaze.

"What do you suggest then, Neville?" Luna suddenly peeps, peering at the brunette through odd star shaped sunglasses.

Neville gives the blonde a grim smile. "Let's talk to him. If we know where he is, then let's approach him. Not to attack. Not to kill. But to _talk_ to him. He used to be our friend. Our ally. Surely we can come to a solution."

Ignoring the snorts of derision and heated protests, Luna raises her hand with a dreamy expression. "I volunteer my services."

"Coun' me in," Hagrid booms, raising his own hand. The groundskeeper had been sitting in relative silence for the whole meeting, appearing dewy eyed at certain points. But now, he seems rejuvenated by Neville's proposed plans, almost relieved. "I'm happy ter have a good ol' talk with 'im."

Neville nods to Hagrid in gratitude. "Thanks Hagrid, but I think Luna might have a better chance at blending in. No offence."

Hagrid gives an awkward chuckle and lowers his hand to his beard. "Ah...tha's a good poin'. No offence taken!"

The Snake Killer glances to Kingsley. "Minister? Can we at least take the first step?"

Kingsley turns to McGonagall. "Headmistress, what do you think?"

McGonagall gives Neville a stern look, but she nods nonetheless. "I would also like to hear what Harry Potter has to say. I think Ms. Lovegood will do a stellar job."

The Minister nods and glances to the oldest member. "And you, Aberforth? You've been quiet. Any thoughts?"

Aberforth simply runs his hand over his grey beard as he grumps and grumbles. "Do as the boy says," he gruffs. "He's got a better head on his shoulders than the lot of you combined."

"_Friend_? _Ally_? Neville, mate, have you lost your fucking mind?" By this point, Ron was standing once more, face as red as a tomato. His breath comes hard and fast, as if he had run a marathon. "This is _Harry_ we're talking about here. The traitor! The bastard who left us all to die just to save his own skin!"

Neville stands firm. Stands tall. He looks his maddened comrade right in the eyes. "His actions caused the deaths of my parents, Ron. I know as much as everyone else here, the consequences of Harry's actions that night."

Shame stays Ron. Makes the man deflate like a balloon. Without another word, he turns on his heels and storms out of the office.

Luna smiles. "Well, this is all rather exciting. When do we start?"

* * *

Draco Malfoy stares at the man sitting before him with some dismay. And disgust.

Harry Potter, while still sporting the recognisable messy raven hair and round glasses, is far from the boy he once knew. He is short for his age, perhaps due to being malnourished in his childhood, and still as scrawny as ever. The man's skin is sallow and shockingly pale, eyes red rimmed and bloodshot, and lips cracked and bleeding. Potter seems on verge of collapse, or death, and Draco doesn't know how to react. So he tries to ignore the other man's condition as best as he could. Though the stench of vomit is making it overwhelmingly difficult.

Potter sniffs and rubs his nose, hunched into a small ball on the couch. Draco sits languidly in his seat, legs crossed, teacup in one hand, saucer in the other.

After a long silence, Potter finally rasps, "Are you here to kill me?"

Draco takes a sip of his tea and almost spits it right back out. It is much too sweet. With a slight wrinkle in his nose, the blonde sets down his tea onto the coffee table between them. "I'm here for my wand, Potter. Do you have it?"

The raven hesitates, then reaches behind his back. He withdraws Draco's wand and rolls it across the table.

Draco catches it with a deft hand and studies it carefully. "It's in poor condition. I expect compensation, Potter."

"I don't have money," Harry protests, brows slanted in worry.

"As loathe I am to admit it, you are one of the richest wizards I know."

"Does it look like I have access to my gold?" The raven picks at his shirt demonstrably and dried flakes of vomit rains down into his lap.

Draco swallows down a sudden wave of nausea and leans back in his seat to widen the gap between them. "What are you doing here, Potter? Why are you acting like a fool?"

"Get bent, Malfoy," Harry scowls, unfocused bloodshot eyed rising to meet Draco's critical gaze. "What are _you _doing here, instead of kissing Voldemort's ass along with your Death Eater father?"

The blonde raises a brow at the words _Death Eater_. "Tell me this, Potter: why did you choose the name 'Tom'?"

Harry glances away, brows valleying as if he had not thought to ask the same question himself.

Draco sighs and reaches into his inner suit pocket and pulls out a thick envelope. "Here." He tosses it at the raven, who fumbles with it. "Whether you like it or not, you and I have the same goal."

Harry opens the envelope, but not before a few good tries due to his fingers being too shaky from the drink. He glances at its contents and gives Draco a perplexed look. "What goal is that, exactly?"

"Keeping you alive," Draco says, sharply. "Which is proving to be increasingly difficult, thanks to your recent antics. Do you crave death so dearly? Even after running from it?"

"What the fuck are you talking about, Malfoy? Why the hell would you want to keep me alive?" Harry tosses the envelope to the ground and hugs his knees, shivering. His headache seems to scrambling the blonde's words. He can't possibly be hearing this right. Is he hallucinating?

"You are the Dark Lord's shield, Potter," Draco says, growing more impatient. "My service to the Dark Lord includes protecting his life, which means protecting his shield. Do you understand?"

Brows furrowed, Harry squints at Draco in confusion. "Huh?"

The Malfoy heir pinches the bridge of his nose. He lets out a long breath and tries again. "I am here to make sure you don't drink yourself to death. And whatever else it is you are doing to slowly kill yourself."

A cold anger settles in those ragged features. Harry rises to his feet, rather unsteadily, and stabs a finger in the blonde's face. "I don't need help from _you," _he snaps. "Take your blood money and get the fuck out of my town!"

"Blood money?" Draco stands in turn, a slight pink tinge in his cheeks. "Do you know what they call you now, Potter? They call you _traitor_. The Betrayer of the Light. The false Chosen One. They call you a cowardly, selfish conman. There's no going back now, even if you wanted to."

"Don't bother coming back," Harry slurs, appearing to not have heard those harsh labels. "I won't be here."

Draco Malfoy lets out a sharp huff, a deep scowl gracing his pointed face. "You've lost the goddamn plot, Potter." Without another word, he storms out of the drawing room and into the lobby.

Harry mutters curses after the man and collapses back into the couch. Glazed green orbs fall to the envelope on the ground. After a moment's contemplation, he reaches down to pick it up.


	4. Chapter Four: To Be

**Author's Note: **_Trigger warning for mentions of suicide, sex, and drugs._

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**To Be**

Even if there were any magical folk in Aldeford, they would hardly recognise Harry Potter now. Said man shuffles down the street in his worn clothing, dyed grey from a washing mishap. His unruly hair now reaches past his shoulders and though he tries his best to grow a beard, there is only a patchy, uneven stubble that graces his face.

The former Chosen One is often seen with a bottle in hand or a big bag of shopping as he carries out an errand for the Aldeford matriarch. When the sun goes down, the Aldeford locals would expect to see the raven haired drunkard to be sitting with the town's other fools, Gideon and Jobe, helping them rustle up enough money for their next hit.

June Pinkerton, the local cafe owner, serves Harry a cup of coffee every morning as he staggers home from the latest bender. Black, eight sugars. She wonders what Mrs. Aldeford sees in the man, to have taken him under her care so easily and continue to do so five years on. 'Tom' is an unfriendly, unhygienic individual with no care in the world aside from the drink and those two junkies by the station. Well, and Mrs. Aldeford, June would admit, albeit begrudgingly. He is rather good with the old crow and the town is protective of their matriarch.

June wrinkles her nose in disgust as the scruffy man exits her cafe, cradling his steaming coffee cup in his trembling hands. She does feel a slight twinge of pity despite herself. Her father was also an alcoholic in his prime and she had grown up watching the most wonderful man she knew wither away into a dribbling husk. She watches the raven disappear up the road and wonders briefly how old he was. Yesterday he seemed to be older than her and today he appeared to be but a child. How strange. With a shake of her head, June turns to the next customer and forces a smile. "What will it be today, Mr. Thompson?"

* * *

He'd gotten an earful from Margaret the day before after Draco finally left. She only stopped berating him when he tossed her the envelope full of money. "You can't pay me off, boy!" is all she said, before creaking back to her office whilst thumbing through the notes.

Harry was glad to rid of her, but he was also glad that he was able to give her something in return. Even if it weren't his own money to begin with.

Keeping an eye out for the tell-tale flash of white hair, Harry makes his way through the Sunday crowds at Aldeford Station. Families and friends dressed up and travelling to zoos and picnics and movie theatres, and whatever else it is that normal people did. Harry envied them to the point of loathing. How nice it would be to be normal. Was he ever?

"Tom! Get your scrawny ass over here!"

Breaking out into a smile, Harry turns his trajectory to the bins by the station. Jobe, a broad faced woman with big brown eyes and dark skin, waves him over with a grin. She's missing a few teeth in her smile, but it's dazzling all the same. Jobe readjusts her overalls and crouches down on her haunches, cigarette dangling from her fingers. "How is it that even though you live in that fancy house of yours, you always look worse than I do?"

Harry huffs a laugh and sits down beside her, making sure not to accidentally kick her coin-filled cap. "I offered to pay for a room, didn't I?"

"Nah, it's not for me. Can't see the stars behind those four walls. And anyway, I bet it stinks like old people in there too."

"You're not wrong," Harry sighs, sipping at his coffee. "Where's Gideon?"

"Off making money, where else?" Jobe busies her hands with her dreads, twisting them between her fingers. "Hey, where did you get off to the other night? We were looking for you for ages, man."

He shrugs and quickly gulps down the rest of his coffee, scalding his mouth. Scrunching up the cup, he takes aim at the nearest bin. "I told you I don't like parties like that." A miss. The cup bounces off the bin and lands near the station entrance. A boot crushes it entirely as it stomps on through.

"Oh yeah? And why's that?"

"The strobe lights. Not a fan."

"You epileptic or something?"

"Or something," Harry mumbles, hunching over his knees.

"Well, you gotta come to the next one. I swear it's more chill. And no strobe lights." Jobe flashes him another sweet smile as she draws a cross over her heart with her finger.

"I don't know, Jobe...I was going to take it easy tonight..."

"Take it easy?" The woman grabs Harry's shoulder and gives it a slight shake. She gives him a wide eyed look. "You dying?"

The raven gives her a wry smile. "Not yet."

"Well, then you're coming! No excuses." She gives him a pat on the back and sits back down, picking up the guitar laying by the cap. "Any requests?"

Harry leans back against the wall. "Do you know how to play any real songs?"

Jobe scowls at the man and strums hard. The guitar is sorely out of tune. "I know real songs. Now shut the fuck up and let me earn my money, bitch."

Shaking his head, the man sits silently, listening to his friend tune her guitar. He mulls over his thoughts and, more specifically, Draco's sudden visit.

'Dark Lord', he had said. He served his 'Dark Lord'. So. The Malfoy heir must have finally become a Death Eater. Even though he had never known the blonde to be a true ally, he never thought of him as a true enemy either. He knew that Draco was terrified of Voldemort and his followers. He was all bark and no bite. And yesterday...

Yesterday he offered Harry protection. Just the thought that his actions helped Voldemort in any way made him sick to his stomach. He knew that by living Voldemort would be impossible to kill. And prophecy be damned, everyone knows the truth now. Everyone knows that Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort were inextricably linked. One must die for the other to die. One must live for the other to survive. They were interdependent. Parasite and parasite. Doomed to live, doomed to die.

If he weren't so paralysed by fear, he would do it himself. Throw himself off the bridge over the river. Stand in front of an oncoming train at the station. But why? Why did it have to be him? He wants to _live_. He wants to be alive, even if it is agony. Because he only has one shot at it and he hardly got to live at all. Whether it be under the Dursley's abuse or Dumbledore's suffocating hold, there was no time to truly live. To be as he truly was. To simply _be_.

So that's what he does, sitting here with Jobe and Gideon outside Aldeford Station. He simply _is_ and it's the purest kind of joy he has ever felt, even if it was minute.

"You alright there, Major Tom?"

Harry blinks. "Huh?"

Jobe laughs and strums her perfectly tuned guitar. "I asked if you were alright, dumbass."

"Yeah. Fine." Harry forces a smile and focuses his attention on his friend.

"Well, look sharp, Tommy, this one's for you."

* * *

Draco Malfoy strides into the alleyway, scanning for any other people. It's a dead end, so if there were any accidental intruders, he would see them coming.

He turns to face the filthy muggle, money in hand. "You see this? You can have this and more if you do as I say."

The muggle, an older man with the look of a starving, rabid dog, twists the bottom of his tattered hoody with both hands. A look of anxious delight lights up the man's face. "You'll be wantin' the full service then?" he asks, words slurred and thick.

The Death Eater narrows his eyes in confusion. "Full service? If that is what you call it, then yes."

With no hesitation, the muggle drops to his knees in front of Draco, head uncomfortably close the blonde's crotch. Dirty hands rise to his zipper and tug.

Draco lets out a rather high pitched shriek and he backpedals, kicking the muggle aside with an urgency. "What do you think you're doing?" he snaps, heart pounding a mile a minute.

The muggle curses and rubs his ribs, giving the blonde a confused look. "The full service. It's wha' you wanted, righ'?"

"That...that is most definitely _not_ what I wanted!" Draco huffs and zips up his pants, suddenly feeling exposed.

"Ah...righ'...sorry." The muggle stands, bent slightly over his bruised ribs, and gives the wizard a perplexed look. "So...wha' do you wan'?"

Draco gives a slight shudder and whips out his wand, not the one returned to him by Potter, but the one he had been using since the day he was disarmed five years ago. With a mirthless smile, Draco mutters something under his breath and reluctantly draws close to the muggle.

"This is what I need you to do..."

With glazed eyes, Gideon listens.


	5. Chapter Five: Exuberant Death

**Author's Note: **_Trigger warning for mentions of drug use, alcohol, sex, and panic attacks._

* * *

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**Exuberant Death**

Charlie Weasley lets out a jaw-cracking yawn, tears gathering at the corner of his eyes. He blinks sleepily and holds his wand closer to the parchment in his hand.

"_Lumos_," he mumbles, blinking rapidly to clear away the threat of sleep.

Five more towns in this region and he can go home for the night. He crosses off Bromley Village from the list and glances at the next one. From experience, he can tell that this town will be the same as all the others. Quaint. Quiet. And suspicious of strangers.

The second eldest Weasley sighs and rolls up the parchment, shoving it into his bag. A quick "_Nox_," sends him into complete darkness.

As he apparates into Aldeford, Charlie feels a deep chill in the spring air. He lands deftly and does small running jump on the spot, shaking out his limbs. He quickly starts down the road he's landed in, in case anyone decided to investigate the loud noise.

It doesn't take him long to spot a tavern. It's probably the only tavern in town as it's packed to the rafters with drunken locals. Quickening his steps, Charlie enters the establishment and lets out a relieved breath as the warmth envelops him. He sidesteps a brawl between two farmers and manages to reach the bar without much incident.

"What'll it be, 'andsome?" The woman behind the bar is portly and middle-aged, her round face pink and rather pretty. She gives him a wide smile and picks up a large glass.

Charlie waves a hand towards her and tries to offer her his best smile. "I trust in your taste. Why don't you surprise me?"

The woman chuckles and begins pouring him a pint of pale ale. "Spring ale it is for the 'andsome fella. Never seen you 'round 'ere before. Visitin' family?"

"Actually, I'm trying to look for someone. He's my friend – went missing about five years ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear tha'." She sets the frothy beer down before Charlie and wipes her hand on a cloth. "Go' a picture?"

Charlie pulls out a crinkled photo, making sure to give it a quick warning glance before revealing it to the woman. In the photo, Harry is frozen and smiling at the camera as he holds up a Christmas present. It was taken at the Burrow during the last Christmas they spent together. If one was to look closely, they might see a slight movement in the picture, but luckily, the bar keeper wasn't keenly eyed.

She peers at the photo and tilts her head to the side, thoughtful. "Hum. Looks kinda familiar. But I can't be too sure..."

Charlie raises his brows and leans in close. "Really? You've seen him? He might have arrived here five years ago. Can you think of anyone like that?"

"Lots of people arrived here five years ago, 'andsome."

"Yes, of course, but surely there's someone who might be this boy in the picture. He's also got a scar on his forehead, like a lightening bolt." The wizard pushes the photo closer to the woman, impatience seizing him like sudden fever.

The woman hums again and narrows her eyes at the photo. She taps Harry's face a couple of times as she thinks. "Yeah...migh' be him. Could be. Bu' he's so...well...shoddy lookin' now."

"_Who_?"

"Tha' Tom fella, livin' down at the B&B with Mrs. Aldeford. Why don' you take tha' photo over to her?"

Charlie frowns, leaning back on his heels. _Tom_? He clears his throat and tucks the photo away into his pocket. "I'll do that. Thank you for your help, ma'am."

"Oh, _please_. You can call me Liv." The woman gives him a coy smile and he feels a sudden burn in his cheeks. He coughs into his fist and grabs his drink, downs it in one go.

* * *

Gideon hadn't left his side all night, and it was starting to wear on Harry. He tried to lose him a few times in the crowd, but every time the man managed to slip back right next to him. Jobe was off dancing or fucking or getting high, so Harry was stuck with the older man.

He finds himself by the makeshift bar, nursing a bottle of beer, and reluctant to engage in the party any further.

"You seen where Jobe went?" he asks Gideon, raising his voice so he could be heard over the music.

"Nah. You good?" Gideon yells back, moving uncomfortably close to Harry. The man tugs at his beard anxiously, wide glassy eyes peering at Harry through the gloom.

_He must have taken something_, the raven thinks to himself as he tries to widen the gap between them. "I'm uh...just gonna go find Jobe. You stay here, okay?"

Two bony hands shoot out and grab Harry's arm in a steely grip. "I'll come with you!"

Frowning, the wizard shakes the muggle off and steps further out of his reach. "You're freaking me out, Gideon. Just...take it easy okay? Why don't you go find me some pot?"

"Nah, I wanna make sure you're okay-"

"Go get me some pot, Gideon," Harry insists, brows falling low. "It'll uh...help me out a lot."

That swayed the man, finally. Gideon hesitates then nods slowly. "Yeah...sure thing...Tom..." With that, he turns and barrels into the crowd, scattering the dismayed dancers like marbles.

Letting out a relieved sigh, Harry hastily makes his escape. He scans the crowd for Jobe, but it's too gloomy and there's too many moving bodies. "Goddammit Jobe."

The raven takes a step into the dancing crowd, when the music suddenly changes. It's more hard, fast, and the bass rattles his insides. And then, out of nowhere, bright neon green lights slice through the dark like knives, moving to the beat of the music.

Breath catches in Harry's throat as ice washes down his spine. His sight blurs, hearing dims, until all he sees is the green light. He thinks he's suffocating, that he's buried alive, when he realises that his breath is coming too fast and too hard. Sweat prickles his skin and world takes on a menacing glow. Worms, the writhing bodies have turned into worms, desperately trying to escape their inevitable death. There's Sirius, Remus, Cedric, Lily, James, Dumbledore, Moody, Tonks, Fred, Snape, and everyone, every single person that's ever died because of him, for him, by his own, bloody hands.

He doesn't stop running until he's outside, well clear of the party. Knees fall into grass as he hunches over, trying to catch his breath. It doesn't come and he feels tears prickling the corners of his eyes. _No, no tears, not now! _

"Are you alright, Harry?"

The raven barely registers the soft, airy voice above him. Nor does he notice the warm hand touching his back. He just focuses on trying to breathe, trying to combat the fear seizing his chest. There are soothing words in the shadows, telling him to count. _Breathe in for four, hold for four, breathe out for four, hold for four, breathe in for four, hold for four, breathe out for four, hold for four,_ and so and on and on, until finally, _finally_, he's breathing normally.

Harry blinks as the world comes back to him and he kneels back on his heels. He wipes his face with the back of his hand and glances behind. "Thanks, that was really-" The last word catches in his throat.

"That's quite alright, Harry," Luna says, giving him a warm smile. "It's good to see you again."

She hasn't changed much since the last time he saw her. Luna still held the same, dreamy expression, and the same wispy blonde hair loosely held together in a braid. She's wearing what appears to be a flowing, silken robe, with an ugly football-like creature patterned onto the colourful fabric.

The blonde crouches down beside Harry and rests her arms and chin upon her knees. "I've never been to a party like this before. It's all so wonderful, don't you think?" She sighs, contently, and studies her old friend with a pleasant smile.

"L-Luna..." Harry's voice catches again and he clears his throat, feeling the tremour start up in his gut again. "Luna...how did you-how are you here?"

"Charlie found you," she says, honestly, digging a finger into the soil at her feet. "And I was sent along to have a chat. Did you know that everyone is trying to kill you?"

Harry blinks at the woman, still uncomprehending of the situation. "Yes. I'm...well aware."

"Don't worry. I don't want to kill you. This town is a true marvel! It's reported that there's a very low population of Blibbering Humdingers in this area, as well as little to no Nargle presence. I suppose it has to do something with the lack of magic folk in the region."

While unsure if he is hallucinating, Harry tries to tap Luna on the shoulder to draw her out of her ramble. "What did you want, Luna, if you're not here to...to kill me?"

Luna smiles and turns her bright eyes towards Harry, holding him hostage with their sleepy warmth. "Would you ever consider coming back and joining the Order again? We miss you. All of us do."

A sharp bitterness grips his heart and he averts his gaze. "I can't. Not now."

"Who says you can't?"

"Everyone. You know what they call me. How they see me. You know what I did. I can't just...I can't just come back and make it all right again." _And I'm too afraid to_, he adds silently.

Luna hums in understanding. "There are other ways of making things right. No-one can make you throw away your own life. But there is much good to be done, good that can't be done in a town like Aldeford."

Harry glances at her, brows tilted in uncertainty. "How much good can I do, if me living means everyone else dies?"

"That isn't true, Harry. There's always another way."

He draws back, eyes widening as if the thought hadn't occurred to him before. "And if they try to kill me?"

That dreamy smile grows. "I'm here to make sure that doesn't happen, Harry. If only you agree to come back with me."

Hesitation stays his reply. He considers her words, is almost swayed by them. Could it be possible? Is it possible? Another way...?

A green light brightens the darkness, dazzling him briefly. He wonders stupidly how strong the laser lights were to have reached the outside, but then he realises, with a growing sense of horror, that it isn't the laser lights, no, that's impossible, how could it be, there's only one thing it could be, one thing only, one thing that he's knows all too well, and he's too late, much too late to stop the inevitable.

Harry Potter closes his eyes as death gallops towards him, unstoppable, all powerful, and brilliant, exuberantly so.


	6. Chapter Six: Gideon

**Author's Note: **_Trigger warning for mentions of domestic abuse, alcoholism, drug addiction, and violence._

_This is a short one, sorry. _

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX**

**Gideon**

When Gideon Hastings was a child, he wanted to be a James Bond. His mother, a devout spy fan, would pop on a VHS every Saturday morning and they would watch a James Bond film together over their breakfast. It was their weekly ritual, one that Gideon loved dearly.

When the hero saved the girl, Gideon would turn to his mother and loudly promise her he would be the one to save her should any trouble befall them. Mrs. Hastings would smile and hug him, thanking her son for his honourable promise.

Gideon broke his promise ten years later, when his mother was struck by his drunken father. She fell and cracked her head open on the coffee table, causing irreparable brain damage. When his father was sent to prison, Gideon was the only one who could look after his mother. But addiction soon found him and she died soon after.

The last thing his mother said to him was how proud she was of him. He stood there, high as a kite, and unable to respond. When her heart finally stopped, Gideon Hastings also stopped living.

It was Jobe that saved him in the end. An optimistic and foul mouthed black girl from the streets of London. She pulled him out of the pits of despair and taught him how to live once again. Through their extensive travels across Europe, Jobe taught him to appreciate the small things in life. A badly tuned guitar could be the key to happiness, and Gideon truly believed that.

They ended up in Aldeford several years ago and because of Gideon's growing mobility issues, decided to stay for the interim. He was getting old and his drug use had worsened. It wasn't so much the high anymore, but a necessity to stay stable. Drugs were his medicine, and without them, he would become untethered.

Ever since meeting that strange, pointy faced man however, Gideon has been feeling rather wonderful. He knew he had to protect his friend Tom at all cost, and this time, he would fulfil his promise. James Bond had nothing on him.

After procuring a baggy of weed, Gideon makes his way outside, hoping to catch sight of his raven haired friend. Ah, there he is! Sitting next to that blonde woman. The older man smiles and approaches the two, holding up the baggy in a triumphant gesture.

"Tom-" The name dies on his lips. He stops mid-step and stares. In the tree line surrounding the warehouse is a figure shrouded in the shadows. It was a wonder he caught sight of the figure, but there was something, a painful prickling, that drew his attention towards it.

Gideon squints and watches the figure closely, fingers turning white around the baggy. The figure steps forward, out of the darkness, with its hand raised above its head. In the dim echo of the street light, Gideon can make out some details: red hair, tall, a man, perhaps. And in his hand, a long object, like a knife or a pistol.

His insides seize. _Danger!_ A small voice warns him, screams at him, _**DANGER! **_

Gideon moves before he thinks.

He bolts towards Tom, a cry of warning tearing from his throat, and he jumps, _throws _himself in front of his friend. The sky tilts, sound dissipates, and bliss envelops. Green is the last thing he sees, and there's the distant voice of his mother, _Gideon, oh my sweet, brave Gideon, how proud of you I am._

For the first time in life, Gideon Hastings has found true happiness.

* * *

Harry stares at Gideon's body in abject horror, mouth agape, senses numb. He forces his gaze up and sees Ron Weasley, charging towards him, wand raised and fire in his eyes. Luna's yelling something at him as she shakes him, what is it? What? _What_?

His eyes drop to Gideon, meet those glassy eyes. _Oh, Gideon. Why are you smiling? What's so funny? Why are you laughing? _

"-DISAPPARATE! NOW!"

In an ear-shattering rush, Luna's voice slams into him, leaving him breathless. On instinct, Harry immediately disapparates, not even noticing the usual suffocating squeeze of the magic. There's another flash of green and Ron's enraged face, Luna's wispy blonde hair floating in the wind. Gideon's eternal smile.

He lands somewhere soft, carpeted, the smell of roses heavy in the air. Tears blur his vision, voice thick and babbling nonsense. Apologies, perhaps, as if Gideon could hear him now. Footsteps outside, the door slamming open, a shrill shout, confusion, anger, shock. Warm arms envelop and he clings on for dear life, not certain if any of this is real.

There, out the corner of his eyes, stands another ghost. Another soul to join the procession of the dead, smiling and waving at him from beyond.


	7. Chapter Seven: Alignment

**Author's Note: **_Trigger warning for mentions of alcohol and murder._

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

**Alignment**

Margaret Aldeford sits opposite, listening to him speak with a quiet thoughtfulness. She sips her tea every now and then and only interrupts to clarify some detail, but otherwise, she lets the man talk and rant and purge his pain.

When he finally falls silent, Margaret sets down her cup and glances to Tom – no, Harry – with a gentle expression. Such a foreign countenance for the austere woman.

"Tell me your plan," she says, folding her hands into her lap and looking to the distraught man expectantly.

Harry raises his wet gaze and seems taken aback. He lets out a disbelieving puff. "You...believe me?"

Margaret raises a brow. Cool grey eyes peer at him from over her spectacles. Hawkish. Sharp. "I am not a woman to be trifled with, boy. I've lived far too long to question the oddities of this world. And you are a terrible liar."

The raven manages a shadow of a smile at that. "I don't know what my plan is. I was hoping to just...hide here until everyone forgot about me." His smile fades. Corners tug down into a self-loathing sneer._ "Stupid_. I only ended up getting Gideon-" A sharp intake. Or perhaps a dry sob.

"Yes, yes. The man is dead. But it is hardly your fault. You were not the one to wield the knife. Or...wand, is it? Whatever it is, you need to leave before anymore of your people show up. I should like to continue living for a while yet."

His face twists, contorts in a sudden fury, "They aren't _my people_!"

Margaret rolls her eyes. "Of course. My mistake. Well, my point is, you cannot stay here. Is there elsewhere you can go?"

Harry deflates, chin dropping to his chest. He leans his elbows on his knees, hunches over as he thinks. "...Maybe it's not a single place. But many a place."

An impatient click of the tongue. "Speak clear, boy. I loathe riddles."

"I'll move on. Staying in one spot for too long has proven to be dangerous. Their network is extensive. I'll just...keep moving on." Tired green eyes rise to lock onto those scrutinising greys.

"Yes, I should think so." Margaret nods her approval and pulls out her purse. Out of the purse, she reveals the thick envelope of money Harry had given her earlier. She tosses it to him with precise aim and it lands in his lap. "You will need funds on your travels. Consider this your severance package."

It seems as though he has sprung a leak, for tears continue to well and burst from his eyes. As if he is a child! Harry clutches the envelope in his hand and furiously wipes at his face. "Thank you, Mrs. Aldeford," he says, thickly.

"Oh, pish-posh, it's Margaret to you, boy. Now I expect you to visit on the regular. I didn't raise you for five years only to have you gallivanting about without visiting me at least once! And no more drinking!"

"I'll try my best," Harry smiles, rising to his feet. It's been much too long. The Order knows he's here – they must be plotting something. He has to make his escape while he still can.

The man moves to the old woman's side and gives her a peck on the cheek. Margaret gives his arm an affectionate pat before waving him off. "Get out of here, child! Leave me in peace!"

Without another word, Harry shuffles out of the drawing room and leaves his home, and his family, behind.

* * *

He walks down a back street, listening to an orchestra of sirens wail down the main road towards the warehouse. At least Gideon has been found. He hopes fervently that no other muggles have been hurt since his escape. Least of all Jobe...

_Jobe_.

Harry grits his teeth and continues on, one foot after the other. It feels as though he is walking through thick mud, weighed down by the boulder that sits within his chest.

To think that Luna would lead him into a trap like that. To think that he almost fell for her pretty words. To think that Ron...his best friend...no, his ex-best friend...to think that he would wish for his death so dearly.

Could he blame him? He expected as much, as soon as he heard about Fred's death. He knew he would never be family to the Weasleys ever again. The hurt was still there, but above all, it was the thought that the people who were his biggest supporters, his refuge and home, that they wanted him dead...it cast him afloat, untethered, loose in a space far too cold and far too vast for just one man.

Where is he going?

He's outside the town border now, heading along the country road. Cows watch him pass by silently with heavy eyes. _You lucky bastards,_ he thinks, _don't know how good you have it_. A wry smile passes his face and he waves at the bovine stock. The nearest cow huffs and swings around, flicking its tail at the man. "Fuck you too," he mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets with a shiver.

Draco falls into step beside him, appearing from the darkness like a ghost. "Talking to cows now, Potter?"

"Get bent, Malfoy," Harry mumbles, certain the blonde is an illusion. "Why do you keep showing up in front of me? I'm not gonna fuck you, if that's what you want."

"Oh, how crass," Draco drawls, tone as dry as a desert. He waves a gloved hand at Harry, dismissively. "Seems like you need my protection after all, given tonight's disastrous events."

The raven opens his mouth to retort, scathing words on the tip of his tongue – but he slumps and simply shrugs, too soul-sick to fight.

"That poor muggle. What was his name? Gerrod?"

"Gideon," Harry squeezes out through clenched teeth. "Gideon Hastings."

"Yes, quite. Well, it's a shame that the Order are so hell bent on killing you that they even disregard their own values. Muggle lovers, aren't they? Well, I saw very little of that tonight."

"It's my fault," Harry monotones. "What can you expect."

"I can expect a modicum of consideration. For the life of me, I cannot understand why you remain so loyal to those idiots. You do understand that Dumbledore raised you to be slaughtered like a cow, yes? That they continue to desire your death to this day?" Draco peers at the smaller man with true incredulity.

The raven grimaces and continues walking in silence, trying his best to ignore the Death Eater's presence.

"Accept my protection, Potter. It will only serve to benefit you."

"I'm not going to align with Voldemort, if that's what you're talking about," Harry shoots back, hackles raised.

"Then align with _me_!"

Harry blinks, taken aback. His steps falter and he comes to a stop.

There's a long silence.

Finally, narrowed green eyes flicker to Draco's face. They flit from side to side as they attempt to read the taller man's expression. "How is that different? You're a Death Eater now, aren't you?"

Draco sighs and rubs his forearm unconsciously. "My father is a Death Eater. And I am my father's son."

Lips twist to the side as Harry picks apart those careful words. "But this is to benefit your 'Lord'. I refuse to play into his hands."

"You did so already, when you chose to live."

Emeralds flash with a sudden heat. White hot fury. "Is it so fucking bad that I want to live? Everyone else has that right. Why not me?"

"Oh no, I completely agree," Draco says, holding out a hand to try quell the raven's rage. "That is why I offer my protection. I thought by now you would have realised, Potter, that there is no light or dark. Your precious Order killed an innocent muggle today. And the only person who can truly help you is _me_. If you want to continue living, you will need to learn the rules of the game. And quickly. Things are different now."

Harry glances back at Aldeford – just distant lights flickering in the night. He takes a long shuddering breath. _Jobe, please be okay._

Draco eyes the shorter man with some impatience, arms folded across his chest. He doesn't expect to hear the next words coming from the Gryffindor's mouth, but when he does, he's pleased.

"Fine. I'll accept your offer, Malfoy. But I'll warn you – one wrong move and you'll never see me again. Am I clear?"

Draco smiles. "Crystal."


	8. Chapter Eight: Truth About War

**Author's Note: **_Trigger warning for mentions of alcohol abuse, torture, and vomit._

_Please leave a review if you enjoyed this story. I would very much appreciate any and all feedback. __Thank you! _

_Until next time._

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

**Truth About War**

Neville storms up the winding path through the unkempt garden. He slams through the front door and it smashes into the adjacent wall. The brunette takes a moment to catch his breath, to cool his simmering anger.

"Neville, in here."

He glances to his left and sees Ginny beckoning him through the archway. Behind her, an old woman sitting calmly in a couch, along with Ron, Charlie, Luna, and Hermione.

Neville frowns when he catches sight of Ron and he bites his tongue. He must speak with the old woman first. As he enters, he clears his throat to announce his presence, making all turn their gaze towards the archway.

"Good evening, Mrs. Aldeford," he says to the old woman, "I'm very sorry about disturbing you so late at night."

Margaret sniffs and sips at her tea, pointedly avoiding his gaze. "If you were truly sorry you would leave me be."

"That may be so, ma'am, but we do need your help." Neville approaches her and kneels down beside her. He gives her his most earnest smile as he often did with his grandmother.

That got her attention. Severe grey eyes slide to that smile, flicker up to the man's kind eyes. "Hmph. Your people have _atrocious_ manners. Trespassing onto my property as if you owned the place. I never!"

"Yes. That's not normally how we do things..." Neville gives Ron a perplexed glance. The red head scowls at him and turns to face the window, shoulders flexing.

"Ron, you should apologise," Hermione says, nudging Ron gently. She gives him a worried look, hand reaching up to pinch his sleeve.

"Don't bother, dearie, my husband was the same. Foul tempered with terrible manners." Margaret sets down her cup and turns her gaze to each and every one of her nightly visitors. "What is it exactly you want from me?" Her eyes land on Neville, unwavering.

The Snake Killer smiles weakly. "I'm not quite sure if you are aware...but the man you have been living with, Tom, as you knew him, is actually a wizard called Harry Potter."

All eyes focus on the woman's reaction – and she gives them none. "Yes, I know. And?"

Neville rears back a tad, surprised. "Ah. Well..." He clears his throat and continues. "Harry is the key to winning the war against a very evil wizard and his followers. We've been searching for him for the past five years and the situation has become quite dire."

"For people with magic, you are truly ineffective," Margaret retorts. She swivels her cool gaze to the red head by the window. "You are Ron Woozle, correct?

The irate Weasley jerks around, teeth bared. "_Weasley_, you old bat-"

"You killed that innocent man, did you not?" Aldeford continues calmly.

The room rings as if her words were a thunderclap. Ron gapes at her before snapping his jaw shut, eyes burning slits.

Hermione turns from Ron, hand on mouth, not so much shocked as she is nauseated.

Ginny pushes herself from the archway and stomps to the front door, distancing herself from the others.

"From what I understand, the muggle threw himself in the line of fire. My brother did not mean to kill him," Charlie explains, though even he seems unconvinced.

"It wasn't an accident," Luna says from near the fireplace. She swivels on the foot stool she's using for a seat and reveals a tired expression, so unlike her usual state. "I saw the whole thing." Her large eyes flit to Ron. "You did a bad thing, Ron Weasley. Clear the nargles from your head before you make another dear mistake."

"I know what you want with my Tom," Margaret says sternly, wagging a finger at Neville. "Do not think for one second that I would just hand him over. I am not so easily fooled, boy. I am an _Aldeford_. We are pioneers, warriors, and visionaries. I may be just a simple old _muggle_ to you, but don't you dare underestimate me. You might get scalded."

"If he doesn't die, you will die," Ron says, loudly. He steps closer to the old woman, chest heaving. "If he stays alive, countless of people will die, including muggles like you. _Especially_ muggles like you. Our war is _your_ war, you old bat. So you best tell us exactly where he went, or you'll end up just like that idiot back at the warehouse."

Margaret stares the young man down, her gaze never wavering. She turns to look at Neville, who watches her with worry writ across his round face. "Even if that were true, I do not know where he went. I made sure to keep myself ignorant of his whereabouts, lest something like this were to happen. Do your magic, torture me if you will – you won't get one iota of information from this _old bat_." With a sniff, the Aldeford matriarch picks up her teacup and takes a sip.

Neville hangs his head with a sigh and looks to the others. "I think we should leave Mrs. Aldeford be."

Ginny clicks her tongue and pulls out her wand, impatience contorting her features. "No, for once my idiot brother's right. If we don't get what we need now, we could lose this war." She glances to Neville. "This is what it's about, Snake Killer. One life for the greater good. We can't afford to make mistakes. We can't afford to lose a single battle. Remember?"

A hard look crosses Neville's features. He looks to Luna, Hermione, and Charlie in turn for support, for validation. But they all avoid his gaze. What have they become?

This is not the Order. This is not the war he wanted to fight. But then, war was never meant to be easy.

Neville sighs and stands, giving Ginny a slight nod. "I'm sorry about this, Mrs. Aldeford. I truly am," he says to the old woman. She simply scoffs over her tea cup, seemingly unperturbed.

With heavy eyes, Ginny draws close to Margaret and raises her wand. "_Legilimens_."

* * *

Draco Malfoy leans against the hay bale, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He flicks a cockroach from his pants with a wrinkled nose.

"I know you are trying to live as a muggle and all, but do we _really_ have to stay here?" he asks Harry, voice heavy with disgust.

Harry shifts on his makeshift straw bed, blinking at Draco by the lantern light. "I just...need to rest. Okay?" His voice is hoarse, words slurred.

The Death Eater frowns at his reply but simply shrugs. "Whatever you say, Potter. Guess you feel right at home, huh?"

Rain drums loudly against the roof the barn, sending a few horses shifting nervously in their stalls. Harry stares up at the ceiling, deep in thought. After some time, he says, "Gideon was one of the good ones. He was honest to fault and he always checked up on me, even though he wasn't doing too good himself."

Draco rolls his eyes and picks at his nails. "I said I would protect you, Potter, not act as your therapist."

"Don't listen then," Harry murmurs, pulling himself up into a sitting position. He sits slumped over, matted locks falling across his dirty face. Green orbs stare at nothing. "Did you know he saved my life? I drank too much and fell asleep in the Faulkner fountain. Almost drowned, can you believe it?" He lets out a bark of mirthless laughter. "He carried me all the way to the clinic on his back. Made sure I wasn't gonna choke on my own vomit."

The Malfoy heir perks up at that. He eyes the ragged man with some distant interest. "Why is it you drink, Potter? I have never seen you partake before."

"Does there have to be a reason? I drink because I enjoy it. Because it makes me feel somewhat human. I'm just a stupid muggle kid getting pissed with his friends, and for a moment, I can almost believe it."

"Why would you ever _want_ to be a muggle?" Draco asks, eyes narrowed in confusion.

"How's the Death Eater life going for you, Malfoy?"

The Slytherin scoffs and glances away. Point made.

Harry pushes his hair from his face and turns his full gaze to Draco. "I don't want you hurting any of them."

"What?" An irritated edge.

"You want to protect me from the Order, fine. But I don't want you hurting them either. Got it?"

"Are you giving _me _orders, Potters?" Draco sneers, temper rising.

"This is your gig, not mine, Malfoy. Either you agree with me, or I walk."

An icy glint flashes in those emeralds. Draco hesitates. _What is this?_

"I don't know how you expect me to protect you without pointing my wand at those Order morons, but fine. _As you wish_, _Potter_." He spits out the last four words as if they were poison. Silently cursing his father (and the Dark Lord, though he would not dare to admit it), the blonde crosses his arms and gives Harry a sharp look. "_You _left them in the first place. I don't know why you are so concerned with their welfare."

The boulder in Harry's chest sinks into his stomach. Of course. What right does he have? Falling deep into a heavy silence, his gaze disappears into the gloom of the barn, escaping far from the reality that besieges him like a cold, uncaring shackle.


	9. Chapter Nine: Sorrento, Italy

**Author's Note:** _I apologise for skipping the update last weekend. My grandmother had a fall and injured her spine, so I spent the weekend in hospital with her. She's doing better now though and I'm back on schedule this week. Here's a longer chapter for you to make up for it. Thank you for reading!_

* * *

**CHAPTER NINE**

**Sorrento, Italy**

Draco Malfoy wraps his cloak around himself as he strides through the Ibeus Manor. His silver mask hugs his face, damp with cold sweat and the dew of his breath. He had little time to spare for this meeting, but he must notify the Dark Lord of his success.

The black marble hall is empty and silent, save for the hurried click of his heels. The Ibeus Manor belonged to a once famous Necromancer, Fredrik Ibeus, who had died long ago when a curse went awry. Unbeknownst to his followers, Voldemort had purchased this Manor from Fredrik's only remaining relative when he was still Tom Riddle (and of course, the relative mysteriously disappeared mere days after the sale). The Dark Lord had kept the estate hidden lest he need a place to hide. Ibeus, for now, is the headquarters for Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Not even the Order knows of its existence.

_It must be five times the size of Malfoy Manor_, Draco thinks as he glances at the ceiling, or at least he tries to – only shifting shadows meet his upwards gaze. Through two intricate doors as tall as the ceiling, Draco steps into a spacious office. The night lick at the walls, chased away by the sleepy fireplace.

A cloaked figure stands near the fireplace, shoulders hunched, head bowed. Draco approaches slowly, clearing his throat softly.

"Father."

Lucius Malfoy flinches and turns his head slightly, revealing a gaunt profile.

Draco swallows and pulls off his mask. He can't help but feel a twinge of repulsion as he eyes the Malfoy patriarch. Ever since the Dark Lord took his followers underground five years ago, Lucius had become a shadow of his former self. He is more ghost than man, floating through these dark hallways, silently acting as a messenger between the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord. The only time he comes to life is when he is berating his son or when he is with his wife. Even then, his relationship with Narcissa is strained at best.

"Father," Draco says again, this time louder. "I have news."

Lucius scoffs and turns back to the fire, waving a bejewelled hand at his son to continue.

The younger man takes a deep breath. "I have successfully convinced Potter to accept my protection. It is only a matter of time before-"

"Tread lightly, Draco," Lucius rasps. "He has thwarted us many a time before. Remember, if we have Potter, we win this war."

"Yes, Father." There's a slight pause. "Has he…spoken of me…?"

The older man lets out a bark of laughter. "You overestimate your significance to the Dark Lord. Bring us Potter and you may have the chance to be something more."

"Like _you_?" Draco retorts.

"Perhaps," Lucius says, coolly. He finally turns to face Draco, the latter who reels back slightly at the sight of his father. Lucius seems to have aged considerably these past few weeks, appearing greyer in both hair and complexion. "Where is the boy located now?"

"He is at a farm two hours north of Aldeford. The Order attacked Potter earlier tonight, killing a muggle in the process."

"A muggle?" Lucius raises a brow, cold eyes glittering. "The Order is growing more desperate. They are acting rash, blinded by their fears. Very good. The more they slip, the more Potter falls within our grasp."

"My thoughts exactly. He has also lost some of his faculties, which makes him easier to sway."

"His faculties?" Lucius narrows his eyes as he shuffles to his desk, dropping into the seat with a sharp sigh.

"He is addicted to the drink and several muggle substances. He also speaks in gibberish half the time. Whoever Harry Potter was five years ago, he is nothing but a fool now."

"That is not ideal, Draco," Lucius frowns. "While some vulnerability is useful, he is also the Dark Lord's best protection. If he is to endanger himself, he will also be endangering the Dark Lord."

"I understand, Father. I will keep a closer eye on him."

"Very well. Is there anything else?"

Draco nods, shifting on his feet. "We may need a safehouse, since the Order has discovered his location."

"Use the summerhouse. The wards will give you both access." With a wave of his hand, the older man turns his attention on the parchment before him, brow furrowing in concentration.

Draco sighs and pulls on his mask. If ever he was his father's son, the title is a mere formality now.

* * *

When he apparates back in the barn, the Malfoy heir finds Harry sleeping fitfully in his makeshift bed. Draco raises a brow at the ragged figure, clearer now in the cold light of morning.

"Wake up," he says, sharply, kicking the hay pile. Harry stirs and grumbles, turning his back on the disruption.

"Wake up, Potter. It is time to go." Draco raises his foot and nudges the Gryffindor with the tip of his shoe. "Unless you'd rather I leave you to the Order-"

"I'm awake, goddammit," Harry growls, pulling himself up into a sitting position. He runs his hands over his haggard face and squints at the blonde. "Where the fuck did you go?"

"Perimeter patrol," Draco says, smoothly. He checks his nails. "Gather your things, Potter. We are on a schedule."

Harry blinks at the word 'things'. "Where are we going?" he asks as he rises unsteadily to his feet. He sways a few times, blinking blearily against the light.

"Just hold my arm," Malfoy says through grit teeth. He shudders at the prospect of that filthy hand soiling his custom-tailored suit.

Harry gives him a narrow-eyed glare, hands tucked away behind his back.

The blonde sighs. "We are going to a safehouse. My grandfather's old summer house in Sorrento. No-one outside of my family knows it exists."

"Sorrento?" Harry gives him a blank look.

"Sorrento, _Italy_, you idiot," Draco snaps, impatiently. He grabs Harry by his shoulder, gripping tightly. Without warning, he disapparates them from the barn, trying to ignore the cries of protest and the subsequent splatter of vomit against his suit.

* * *

The summer house is a breezy white structure with royal blue trim. It is two storied and sits atop a hill overlooking the city, a faceless lord imposing in the sheer size of the mansion. There's a road that whips around the hill and down to a private beach, all protected by wards. Flanked by orange and lemon groves, there is a pleasant citrus scent that permeates the land, a scent that Harry quickly grew to enjoy.

The week Harry had spent at the summer house (or rather, mansion) so far had been quiet. While withdrawals had started to set in upon arrival, there was an impressive collection at the bar to keep the worst at bay – though Malfoy seemed unhappy at the man's continuous inebriation.

The mansion was empty for the most part. Aside from the two wizards, there was just one house elf called Silby, though she kept to herself and only offered one-word answers whenever spoken to.

Draco was often away, but the wards kept Harry from the Order's sights. Now and then, he would wake from a terrible dream in agony. His connection with Voldemort is only growing stronger, and while it normally might have worried him, Harry finds himself no longer concerned. His life is in Voldemort's hands, but his life is also the most precious weapon Voldemort has in his arsenal.

"Brooding, Potter?"

A snarky voice snaps him from his thoughts. Harry turns from the window and the rain drenched landscape to see Malfoy in his Death Eater robes. His mask dangles from a gloved hand, a soft silver flash in the glim.

The Gryffindor frowns and hops from the windowsill. "I don't brood," he grumbles, brushing off the seat of his pants.

"Of course you don't." Draco sits at the mahogany table, pushing aside a large pile of half-read books. He doesn't like to visit the library often, but when he does it's never to read. "Silby has informed me of your actions last night."

Harry scoffs and gathers up his books, placing them into two messy piles. "Got her spying on me now, have you?" His retort can't hide the slight tinge of red crawling across his pale cheeks. There are dim memories of vomiting in a flower vase and stumbling through the mansion in the nude. Where his clothes disappeared to, he has no clue.

Those cold grey eyes study the raven with some irritation. "You will stop drinking. I believe I have been far too lenient, letting you do as you wish. No more."

"And who's gonna stop me? The house elf?"

"Silby has destroyed any and all alcohol on the premises. Good luck trying to-"

"I'll go to a bar. There's plenty in Sorrento."

"You cannot leave the safety of the wards."

"Yes, I can. It's as easy as walking out."

"If you wish to be found and killed by the Order."

"If I'm dead, so is your Dark Lord."

"Do you wish to take the chance?"

"_Do you?_"

Harry and Draco stare at each other, the former breathing rapidly. The prospect of his precious drink being taken away scares him shitless, but he would never admit that. Especially not to a Malfoy.

There's a tightness in his chest as he tries to remain calm, or at least appear so, and sweat prickles his brow. Hands tremble slightly around a book and he flips through it, though his eyes are unseeing.

Draco notes the unfocused look in Potter's eyes with a mild interest. "No drinking. Or I throw you to the dogs. Understand?" he says, no less stern. There's a sadistic curl in his lips as he watches his childhood nemesis unravel before him. It always brings him such pleasure to see Potter shaken, toppled from his pedestal.

Harry grips the book until his fingers turn white. He blinks rapidly, as if fighting back tears, and quickly turns from Malfoy. He slides the book into a shelf and just stands there, shoulders tense, limbs shaking. No drinking? _Ever?_ The prospect left him cold. His habit is so fully ingrained in him, that the idea of not having it in his life anymore is terrifying. He feels as if he were already losing vital parts of himself and an overwhelming sense of grief wells up within.

"_Potter_," Draco snaps, his glare burning into the back of the raven's bowed head.

"…fine," Harry mumbles, voice so soft it could have been the wind.

"What?"

"_Fine_," he says, loudly, breath hitching.

The Malfoy heir leans back in his seat, arms folded across his chest, and a satisfied smirk growing on his face. "Very good."

Harry dare not turn to face Draco. If he were to see that smug face, he would most definitely try to strangle the git. "Is that all?" he squeezes out through grit teeth.

"I expect you to understand that this ban includes _all_ substances-"

"_Yes, I understand_!"

Draco huffs, amusedly, and rises to his feet. "Here," he says, tossing a roll of parchment onto the table. "A friendly reminder." With that, he exits the library with a sweep of his robes.

Harry waits until the door clicks shut behind him before finally turning around. He sees the parchment and grabs it, chewing on the insides of his cheek. He's already broken his vow. Doesn't mean he has to again. As he holds out the parchment, dewy emeralds narrow into icy slits.

_**WANTED  
HARRY JAMES POTTER**_

_**FOR TREASON AND COLLUSION WITH DEATH EATERS**_

_**ARMED AND VERY DANGEROUS**_

_**KILL ON SIGHT**_


	10. Chapter Ten: The Divine

**Author's Note: **_I only meant to upload one chapter this week, but I just kept writing and I couldn't stop! McGonagall's history is so fascinating. I never realised how awesome her back story was. _

_I hope you enjoy this chapter! Please let me know your thoughts in a review. I would really like to know how I'm doing. Thank you!_

* * *

**CHAPTER TEN**

**The Divine**

A wild wind howls through the barren land, touching all but the man with no face. He's empty even to himself and sometimes forgets his own name. In this land, he's as thin as a skeleton and only as dense as the air. He daren't step from the ground, lest he lose his footing and fall to the sky.

There's a creature that lurks on the horizon. He knows this because there's a mountain that moves - a great hulking shape with many heads and a pained gait. Sometimes it looks as though it isn't moving. It appears to be sitting still, in one location. But the man quickly learned that this meant the creature is walking towards him. So steady is its' path.

Now and then he sees the dead. His family and friends and teachers and comrades, all shift in and out of existence like a flickering light. The wind catches their words, steals them away to the nothing beyond.

One clasps their hand on his shoulder, a grip that feels as real as himself.

"Tom…"

"Gideon," the man responds, still watching the creature lumbering towards him.

"Tom…or is it Harry?"

"I'm sorry."

"I like that name…Harry…It suits you better."

The man doesn't dare respond.

Gideon circles the man until they stand face to face. One shrouded, the other clear as day. Gideon's smile dazzles, his skin is unblemished, and he's awash with a chilly exuberance. Like the first breath of a bright winter's morning. Harry feels as though he could truly fall in love with the dead man, if there weren't such an impenetrable divide between them.

"Harry…why do you stay…?"

"I have nowhere else to go."

Gideon knocks back his head and laughs. The sound is grating and jarring, as if his voice were rusted metal. "This land is vast and endless. All you have to do is move."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Then I won't be able to see it."

"It?"

Harry raises his hand and points to the creature. He blinks and pulls his hand into his chest. Did it move closer?

Gideon follows his gaze and hums, tugging at his immaculate beard. "…yes…the Divine…it feeds on the dark…"

The living man glances to the ghost. "It's coming this way. I'm afraid if I look away, I will lose sight of it."

"You need not fear, Harry…the Divine will always find you…"

Harry swallows and nods. Turns his full attention to Gideon, who watches him with a playful smile. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, "for killing you."

"You did not kill me, Harry…I chose my death…which is a gift…"

"Why?" Harry says, abruptly. A sliver of anger rises within. The creature hastens its steps.

"…it was my own choice…my own decision…" The dead man's smile warms.

"It was stupid."

"I am content."

"What about Jobe?"

That sweet smile falters. Fades. Gideon's visage grows white, then grey. Skin cracks and crumbles. He turns sightless eyes towards the creature. It hastens.

"Stupid," Harry says again, but the word is lacklustre and empty.

"You were the second person I ever loved." Gideon's voice is distant. "I should have told you when I had the chance."

Those words struck like daggers. "Stop," Harry croaks, both hands clutched to his chest. The creature is well within his sight now, each step a dragging agony yet increasing in speed.

"The world tries to keep you grounded, Harry…makes you so afraid to disappear…"

"I don't want to be untethered."

"If you do not let yourself breathe, we will surely meet again…this time on the same side of the veil…"

"Maybe it's for the best."

Gideon prickles, crackles with electric rage. "_Stupid_."

Harry smiles.

The creature almost upon them, the dead and the living watch in silence. Neither afraid nor angry, simply content to be in each other's company for one sweet moment.

* * *

Draco reaches over to feel Potter's forehead. It's cold and clammy. He straightens up with a grimace. It's been two days so far with the raven's condition continuously deteriorating.

While Draco had managed to procure some potions to ease the worst of the symptoms, the sickness was still rather severe.

"Dammit, Potter. How much had you been drinking?" The Slytherin narrows his eyes at the unconscious man, twisted in his damp sheets.

The Malfoy heir pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling exhaustion settle deep in his bones. If Potter dies under his watch, there would be hell to pay. His father sent word that the Dark Lord is also feeling the effects of Harry's illness. If he were to perish…

Draco feels an involuntary shudder rattle his insides. No, he won't let that happen. He must be more careful. "Silby!"

There's a _pop_ and a small house elf appears before the Malfoy heir. "Yes, Master Malfoy?" she says into a bow.

"Fetch me more hot water and clean cloths."

"Right away, Master Malfoy."

As Silby disappears to do his bidding, Draco settles back into the armchair beside Potter's bed. He holds his elbow as he taps the underside of his chin, narrowed greys raking over that pathetic form. "I did not wish to be a glorified nanny," he says, aloud. "You will repay me, Potter, and you will not die until you have done so. _In full_." Those grey eyes flash and turn to steel.

Harry shivers and wrestles against the bed sheets, mumbling feverishly.

The window rattles against a sudden gust of wind. The fire crackles and snaps. Outside, a storm rages on, as the raven continues his desperate fight.

* * *

The Headmistress of Hogwarts and the co-leader of The Order of the Phoenix, Professor Minerva McGonagall, has a rather big problem. This problem came into her life twenty-one years ago in the dead of night on a nondescript street in Britain Suburbia.

Her heart clenches whenever she thinks of that child, swaddled in just a thin blanket. That poor child lying on the doorstep to the home of some of the most despicable muggles she's ever had the displeasure of knowing.

Did he ever feel at home? Was he ever happy?

Minerva runs her hands under her eyes and is surprised to find them wet. _Compose yourself_! _This is the traitor of the light you are crying over._

Traitor? Is Harry really a traitor? The witch has her doubts. She sighs and pushes her chair back. Makes her way to the window. Below is the expanse of Hogwarts, sprawled across lush green forestry. Students bustle about in the courtyards and hallways, on their way to lunch. The Great Lake glitters in the midday sun, winking at her from the embrace of the surrounding ranges.

"Harry on your mind, my dear Minerva?"

The Headmistress glances over her shoulder to see her friend smiling genially at her. "How did you know, Albus? Am I really that obvious?"

Dumbledore hums and rocks back on his heels, though only his upper half is shown in his portrait. "I have known you since you were a child, my friend. If I did not know your thoughts, then I would not be able to call you as such."

Minerva sighs and glances back down at her students. To be so carefree and jovial. _Oh, Dougal, if only you could see me now!_

"The world wants him dead, Albus. I find it abhorrent and yet I understand why…'the sacrifice of the few for the good of the many'…"

The old wizard nods and strokes his beard, looking thoughtfully at the ceiling. "I felt the same way when I first met Harry. He was but a baby, so small and fragile. With his whole life ahead of himself. And yet…I knew…he would have to suffer great hardships and agony in his young life. Such is the burden of prophecy."

"Surely there must be another way, Albus! The boy does not wish to die. He has made that abundantly clear. I cannot condone the actions of the Order-"

"Fear is a powerful force. Voldemort and his forces know how to utilise fear as a powerful weapon."

Minerva frowns and glances back at her former mentor. "All the more reason not to act like them-"

"What is the opposite of fear, Minerva?"

Suddenly feeling as though she were back in Professor Dumbledore's Transfiguration class, Minerva straightens up. "Confidence?"

"The Order has lost its will, blinded by fear. You must instil confidence, give them time to process their emotions. They are in as much pain and confusion as you are, Minerva. They were, after all, Harry's family."

The witch shakes her head in a kind of wonder. "I don't know how you did it, Albus. Kept your head and heart separate."

"I did no such thing," Albus says, eyes twinkling above a warm smile.

Minerva bows her head. "We do not have time to spare, Albus. They are planning something. A large-scale attack, I believe. If we do not find a solution soon, I'm afraid I will not be able to protect Harry for much longer."

Dumbledore considers the witch for a long moment, smile never wavering. Then, with a dip of his head, he says, "There is another way. Not for certain, but something I had been working on right up to my death."

With widening eyes, Minerva quickly glances to her old friend, heart thumping. "Tell me. Albus. _Please._"

"Take a seat, Minerva. And grab a bowl of Cockroach Clusters. This may take some time to explain."


	11. Chapter Eleven: One True Ally

**Author's Note: **_Trigger warning for mentions of gore, __corpses, murder, physical abuse, and suicide._

_Another week, another chapter! I hope everyone has had a good week. And if not, I hope the weekend is restful and peaceful. I've had a pretty crazy week both at work and at home. And from next week, I'm working new longer hours. Whether this means less or more time to write, I have no idea. I will do my utmost best to keep releasing a chapter every week. But please do not expect it to happen at exactly the same time/day every week. _

_This chapter was so much fun to write, which might be obvious given that this is the longest one yet. Draco is quickly becoming my favourite character to write in this little fic._

_Well, I hope you enjoy Chapter Eleven! Til next time. _

* * *

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

**One True Ally**

There's blood pooling at his feet and he knows his shoes will be ruined. He tries to move but he's frozen, eyes locked on the grotesque display before him, mouth agape as if he were gulping for air but never really getting enough-

Is this what he is? Is this what he wants?

_A message_, his father said. _Send them a message_. _Exactly the way the Dark Lord wants_. How theatrical. How ghastly. To think that the Dark Lord lacks any kind of refinement…

Draco clamps his mouth shut and does a sharp intake through his nose. A mistake. The stench is rust and rot and bile rises, threatens.

_I am a Death Eater_, he reminds himself, stashing away his wand. He finally steps back from the blood and barely suppresses a shudder. _I am a Death Eater. This is what I do._

Hundreds of bodies are twisted together like a gory ball of yarn, limbs flailing and writhing in the aftershocks of death. Thousands more are being created across the world, left in squares and streets and malls and parks and schools. When the job is done, the world will awaken to a sight to behold.

Warped faces with gaping jaws and empty eyes stare blankly at Draco as he regards his handiwork. Any discernible or identifiable features had been scoured away with the skin, leaving muscle and veins exposed. Some faces are smaller than others. All are contorted into horrendous expressions.

He quickly glances away, suddenly feeling nauseous.

"Looks good to me." Reyansh, a new recruit, cracks his neck and stows away his wand. He turns his mask clad face to Draco and shrugs. "Reckon it's a good a place as any."

Malfoy casts his gaze at their surroundings. They stand on a foggy field, grass wet from recent rain. Further to their left stand the forlorn buildings of Sacred Heart Primary School. In one hour, the lunch bell will ring, and a wave of children will wash over the field. Hundreds of children to witness the Dark Lord's gruesome message.

"Those muggles are in for a treat," Reyansh sniggers. His dark eyes narrow at the pale man. "Goblin got your tongue, Malfoy?"

Draco gives the recruit a sharp look. "This will have to do. You will head back to Ibeus alone."

"Lucius emphasised for us to return together. We need to report-"

"I never took you for a brown nose, Reyansh," Draco says, each word like a shard of ice.

"I've heard things about you, Malfoy. Daddy's little boy forced to join the Dark Lord's ranks because of your father's pathetic legacy. He's just a messenger mule, you do realise that, don't you?"

The blonde tenses, though he keeps his gaze steady. "I am hardly my father's son, Reyansh. And what about you? Why did you join? By the way you were torturing those children earlier, I suspect it has little to do with the Dark Lord's ideologies."

The recruit puffs out his chest and drops his chin. Malfoy could almost see the sneer behind the mask. "Children or no, I will draw my wand against any filthy muggle. That is the Dark Lord's will. You on the other hand seem very much reluctant to carry out your duties."

"Why get my hands dirty when I have a bitch recruit to do everything for me?"

"There's talk that you're going to up and leave, betray the Dark Lord like your cowardly parents once had. Count your lucky stars the Dark Lord sees value in even the worthless of trash." Reyansh scoffs and turns towards the mass of bodies, still now and rapidly cooling. Steam rises in the crisp air, mingling with the fog.

"Oh, on the contrary, Reyansh. You will soon see that ever crossing me is the worst mistake you will ever make."

Reyansh simply huffs and shrugs, unimpressed by the blonde's threat. "Go then. I'll simply tell Lucius that you abandoned your duties like you did last time-"

"I have other duties I must attend to," Draco snaps. "Duties for the Dark Lord." A cold glint enters those greys. "Dare you hinder my efforts in carrying out His will?"

"Ah, already working as a messenger mule, then?"

Draco narrows his eyes. "Speak with care, Reyansh, lest your tongue be ripped from your mouth-"

The threat hangs, landing nowhere, as a deafening crack lashes the air and Reyansh disapparates from the field.

"_Motherfucker_!"

* * *

He's already walking when he apparates into the estate, hurried steps clicking through the marbled halls. Silby appears beside him, scurrying along as she rattles off her daily report on Potter's condition and movements.

"-and Master Potter has only left his room to walk around the orchard. He still hasn't asked Silby for anything-"

Draco rolls his hand impatiently. "His condition?"

"Physically, Master Potter seems stable."

"Physically?"

"Yes, Master Malfoy."

The blonde frowns, brows creasing in the middle. "Explain."

The elf nods, panting as she tries to keep up. "He speaks to someone invisible and he goes into many fits of anger. Silby has had to clean and fix many things, including the blue vase Mistress Malfoy loves so dearly!" The elf seems to be on the verge of tears by the time she finishes her report, her little fists clutching at the hems of her small pillowcase robe.

A fine brow rises over troubled greys. Draco comes to a stop outside Potter's room, pausing only to remove the silver mask from his face. He smooths back his hair and fixes his robes before shoving the doors open with a flourish.

"Rise and shine, Potter," he says, loudly. "I hear you've been rather busy destroying my property."

The raven is curled up in his bed, buried under twisted sheets and crumpled pillows. Broken furniture and decorations litter the dark oak floor boards. The windows overlooking the orchard has blown out, leaving a glittering mess of broken glass over everything.

Draco picks his way gingerly through the hazardous room and comes to stand beside the bed. He nudges the motionless lump with the edge of his mask.

"I say, Potter, get out of bed. Have you seen the state of this room? You will not destroy my family's property in such a manner! It is _highly inappropriate_-"

"Fuck off, Malfoy," comes a muffled grumble from under the sheets.

The Malfoy heir lets out a sharp huff and leans back on his heels. A hand comes to rest on his right hip. "I have had a tiresome day and I do not have the energy to deal with this. Clean it up or you are out with the dogs. Understand?"

"Oh, cry me a fucking river." The lump shudders and rises, sheets falling away to reveal a dishevelled and gaunt looking Potter. Red rimmed eyes lock onto the Death Eater and they flare with unconstrained fury. "Is killing muggles tiring, Malfoy? You want me to give you a cuddle and sing you a fucking lullaby?"

Those words hit Malfoy like a slap in the face. He grimaces and steps closer, brows dropping low over hawkish eyes. "What is the meaning of this? Why are you throwing this tantrum? Stop acting like a child and control yourself-"

A pillow comes sailing through the air and lands on Draco's face. It drops to the floor with nary a sound, leaving the blonde's face contorted in anger and surprise. "_What the fuck are you doing?" _he snaps, tossing his mask aside. It bounces across the floorboards, landing near a broken chair.

"Acting like a child!" Potter shouts, tossing another pillow at Malfoy's face.

"You will cease this ridiculous display-_" _His words are swallowed up by the offending pillow, which he also hurls to the side.

Malfoy lunges across the bed and grabs Potter by the collar. He twists the fabric and jerks him from the bed. He pauses for a moment, surprised by the ease to which he carries the man, but quickly reasserts his position. "_Enough!_"

"Let me go, Malfoy! Just let me go!" Green eyes shimmer in the dying sunlight, cast a bloody red through the open window.

Draco gives the man a hard shake for emphasis. "Not until you stop," he growls through bared teeth.

"Let me go, Draco,_ please_! I can't stand it anymore. I just want to get it over and done with!" The Gryffindor's voice thickens as tears spill from those dewy greens.

Malfoy freezes upon seeing those tears, mouth popping open in shock. He blinks rapidly before narrowing his eyes into slits, a perplexed expression writ across his pale face. "...what...what are you...talking about?" he asks, haltingly. His grip relaxes a tad nonetheless.

Trembling hands grasp at those around the raven's collar, cold and clammy. "It's been five years...five years...how much longer must I run and hide? How long will you keep me here? Let me do what I should have done five years ago-"

"Nonsense," Draco says, abruptly, and clicks his tongue. He tightens his grip and draws the desolate man closer. "You are terrified of dying. This is public knowledge. And as for your release, I am unable to grant it. You are my mission, Potter. If I should fail, it will be me who shall perish."

A harsh sob escapes the raven and his head droops, chin dropping to Draco's fist. Dishevelled inky locks fall across his eyes, hiding his expression.

Malfoy raises a brow at Potter's response. Is that it? Did he win? "So you will cease this nonsense and return to how you were before. Perhaps you will be more inclined to follow my orders."

"Why should I care for a Death Eater's fate?" Harry's voice is monotone, empty. "It's because of you...because of Voldemort...that everything is fucked. I've lost everything...I've lost _everyone_...and I see them...I see them everywhere...maybe it's my time to-"

_Crack_.

At first, there's a delirious moment when he thinks someone has apparated into the room. But when a stinging pain starts to prickle his cheek, he realises otherwise. Stunned, his lamentations die in his throat and he becomes as still as a statue.

Draco lowers his hand and releases Potter, a disgusted twist of his lips marring his otherwise impassive face. "_Pathetic," _he spits, tone caustic. "It must be nice, indulging in your self-pity. Have you always been such a simpering fool? To think I once regarded you as a worthy opponent." The Slytherin scoffs and turns away, jaw pulsing.

Wide green eyes stare up at Draco, red rimmed and full of unshed tears. Harry slowly reaches up to his stinging cheek with a shaking hand, looking unsteady and confused. There's a long moment of silence. Then, finally, a quiet, "_What do I do_?"

Malfoy returns his gaze to the raven kneeling before him. There's an odd stirring in his chest when he meets those wide emeralds and that raw, open expression...one of utter vulnerability and uncertainty. Has Potter always been this small?

He clears his throat and raises his chin, an arrogant whip. A hurried hand smooths down stray white locks. "You will live," he begins, slowly. "You will live as you know you wish to. You have been groomed to serve those morons in the Order from the day you were born. But you will do so no longer."

"...you mean...you want me to serve Voldemort..." Harry mumbles, eyes dropping to the ground.

"It would service you to stop making such bold assumptions, Potter," Draco says, impassively. "I simply want you to accept my protection. Use it to your advantage. Does it matter if it is from me or the Dark Lord? As long as you survive, that is what truly matters. Once we eradicate the Order, you will be free from threat and free to live as you please."

Harry flinches at the word 'eradicate'. "But you promised...that you wouldn't harm them..."

A hard scoff. "Use your brain, Potter. This is war. If we do not win, you will die. Do you understand that?" Malfoy lets out a sharp sigh, frustration mounting. He drops to haunches and crouches before Harry, elbows resting on his knees. "It is time, Potter, to live for yourself. Choose a side. The Order or yourself. You need not consider the Dark Lord in this decision."

Startled by what he takes as sincere advice, Harry hesitates. He blinks and pulls back slightly, widening the gap between them. Hands coming to his torn collar, he tugs and twists at the material, face stained with tears and worry. Those hawkish greys flit from side to side, as if the Death Eater were studying him with great scrutiny. How his gaze causes him such unease. Like he were skinned and his insides were exposed.

Eventually, he gives the slightest of nods. "I don't..." His voice turns hoarse and his words peter away into a rasp. Clearing his throat, he tries once more. "I don't want to die." This time it's clearer.

Draco leans back, the shadow of a smile crossing his lips. "No more doubts, Potter."

The former Chosen One chews his lower lip, feeling nothing but doubt burn through him like acid. Somewhere along the way, his former schoolyard nemesis had become a point of reference for Harry. Everything and everyone begins with Draco, and he's not quite sure how he feels about it.

"...no more doubts," he murmurs, stomach churning.

The ground shudders and breaks beneath him, falling away as he becomes truly airborne. His only tether, his one safety net, is now the man that stands before him. A Death Eater. The enemy.

And his one true ally.


	12. Chapter Twelve: The Third Genocide

**Author's Note: **_Trigger warning for mentions of genocide, physical abuse, and murder._

_I feel like the characters and events are slowly starting to reveal themselves to me. I do hope that my writing doesn't seem to jump around too much. I'm recovering from a severe writer's block that's lasted almost five years, so I am still very shaky. Hopefully, as I get further into this, I will improve! _

_Thank you for sticking with me and this silly fic. I hope you enjoy this chapter._

_Til next time!_

* * *

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

**The Third Genocide**

"_Fuck_." Neville Longbottom buries his head in his hands, feeling as though his insides were cast afloat, tossed and battered by waves of emotion.

Ginny grabs his shoulder and gives it a reassuring squeeze. "We have to strike back, Neville. We have to strike hard. You know this."

"I know!" He growls through grit teeth, pushing the heel of his palms into his eyes. "You think I'm just going to sit back and let this happen?"

The Snake Killer lowers his hands and glares up at his lieutenant who stands over him, arms akimbo, with a terrible scowl etched across her freckled face.

"I don't know, Neville. Are you?" she shoots back, unforgiving.

The study is silent and empty save for the two of them, the fire crackling away merrily in its hearth. He would expect the others to come calling very soon – except for the Minister and the Headmistress. Kingsley and McGonagall must be beside themselves dealing with the fallout. He wouldn't be surprised if there were calls for the school to be shut down. Knowing McGonagall, however, she would most likely fight tooth and nail to keep her students' education largely unaffected.

Neville stares blankly into the fire. They knew this was coming. For five uneasy years, it was unclear whether Voldemort and his followers would return, and if so, the details of such a return were murky at best. Now, it is safe to assume that Voldemort is back and at his strongest, having amassed a small army that, by all reports, is growing exponentially every year.

"There must be at least two hundred. More than he'd ever had before," Neville says aloud.

"Two hundred what?" Ginny says, eyes narrowing. "Are you listening to me?"

"Yes, Ginny. I am." He tears his eyes away from the fire and towards the impatient red head. Like brother, like sister. But it is understandable, given what they have been through. "We will hold off a response until we have spoken with the Minister and the Headmistress. Where are the others?"

Ginny scrunches her nose. "Obliviation spree. The whole world witnessed the Death Eaters' handiwork, Neville. It's going to take some time for the hysteria to die down."

"Then we'll let them be. Damage control is top priority. Next, is figuring out what the Death Eaters' next move is."

"Next, is tracking the traitor down - not playing guessing games."

The Snake Killer frowns as he leans back in his seat. "We have tried to track Harry down for the past five years. And the only time we did, we killed a muggle and lost Harry to the Death Eaters."

His lieutenant flinches hard. "Do you realise what's happened?" she says in a low voice. Her eyes flash in the firelight. "Leaving the traitor alive has resulted in the deaths of thousands, if not _hundreds of thousands_ of people. It's a _genocide_, Neville, and all because one selfish prick would rather run away than deal with his responsibilities." Trembling hands clench into tight fists, as if she were ready to start swinging at any moment.

Neville rubs his eyes, feeling the first dull throbs of a headache.

"I'm putting together a proper task force with the best aurors we have," Ginny continues. "You can't stop me, Snake Killer."

"Fine," he says, shortly. "Make your task force. But don't you dare kill him – not yet. We must learn what he knows, Ginny. Understand?"

With an unconvincing grunt of affirmation, Ginny spins on her heels and exits the office. Neville grimaces at her back. Running into this blind is a bad idea but waiting too long has wrought unfathomable consequences_. Genocide_, she said. What part does Harry play in all of this?

* * *

Luna Lovegood often sits in diners along sparse highways crossing the American badlands. She doesn't know why she enjoys visiting such places. Perhaps it is the sense of camaraderie she feels with the other diners, all sharing in her solitude. Or it could be the food, greasy and delicious, with fresh fruit pies she would never be able to taste at home.

She likes watching the other patrons, often truckers or runaways. Sometimes weary travelers and families on road trips. Once or twice she would see the odd wand sticking out of a waistband. She would never reveal herself or even attempt to bring attention to herself. No, she rather enjoyed these moments of quiet observations and respite.

For the briefest of moments, Luna is a faceless muggle, passing through a warm and grimy diner. The idea thrills her somewhat.

What isn't particularly thrilling, however, is seeing a familiar round-faced man drop down into the seat across from her.

Luna adjusts her pink tinted glasses and gives him a long look over the frames.

"You're not as sneaky as you think you are," Neville sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. He gives his old friend a grim smile and tries to steal her coffee.

"You look like a Gulping Plimpy that's spent too much time on land," Luna observes, quite frankly.

"Thank you, Luna," Neville replies, smoothly, taking a wary sip of the coffee. "Ack. Diner coffee is so…" He rolls his hand around as if searching for a word.

"Wonderfully horrid and horribly wonderful," the blonde finishes for him. "Are you alright, Neville?"

"No. You've heard about what's happened?"

"'The Third Genocide'," she nods, glancing at the other patrons. Two truckers on the verge of sleep and a waitress, who is listening to the radio at the counter. In other words, there is no need to cover their voices.

"Ginny's on the warpath, Luna. She's putting together a task force to track Harry down."

"Ah."

"I've asked her to bring him in alive, but it's not just a task force she wants."

Luna begins making complicated folds in her napkin, a small, vacant smile lingering on her lips. "You would like me to find Harry first and bring him in alive."

"We don't know how much Harry knows. He could give us insight into the Death Eaters' movements, what they're planning…we could stop the next genocide from happening."

"Isn't a lieutenant supposed to listen to her captain's orders?"

"Have you met Ginny?"

"You have a point." Luna's smile widens and she offers a napkin bird to Neville.

He takes it with a muttered thanks, but his anxious gaze is solely on the blonde.

Luna sighs and rests her cheek in her hand. "What about Minerva and-" She pauses upon seeing the man's taut expression. "Alright, Neville," she says, softly. "You can leave it to me."

Neville slumps in relief and he takes a giant gulp of cold coffee. "Ack. It really is terrible."

"What are you going to do?"

He sets down the empty cup with some vigor. While it may be bad, the coffee has given him a renewed sense of purpose and surge of much needed energy. "The Order is in shambles right now and everyone, muggles and magical folk, are looking to us for guidance. Once the muggles have been seen to, I'm going to make sure we're all working for the same cause. I can't be in the Order as it stands, Luna. And I know you feel the same way."

Luna hums through a dreamy smile. "Yes, I like this Neville better."

* * *

Gideon waves him over with a sage smile. "Here to see the show?"

Above the barren landscape is a multitude of soaring colours and lights, like thousands of meteors racing into the sky.

Harry sits down beside the ghost and watches with him. Gideon seems to be more solid this time, the air more tactile and the objects sharper. Perhaps he steps too close to the veil, but he's too taken by the lights to give it much mind.

For the longest time they sit in silence, simply bearing witness to the spectacular show. Eventually, the raven speaks. "…It's beautiful," he says, voice a mere whisper. He is afraid to speak any louder, lest his voice disturb the lights.

"They're dead," Gideon says, rocking back with a smile.

"Dead?" Harry stares at the muggle blankly.

"Those lights…they aren't really lights. They are the life essence of a person." Gideon glances to Harry and pats his arm in a comforting gesture. "Something must have happened."

A cold dread douses his insides. He quickly rises, staring hard at all the lights. From here, they looked to be in the millions. "There's so many!" he cries. "How can they all be dead?"

"Like I said, something must have happened. Are you unaware?" The ghost rises also, as calm and placid as ever. He gives Harry a curious look, verging on sympathetic given the man's reaction.

Harry tries to control his breathing, hands pressing hard into his chest as if he could slow his racing pulse. "I…I've been having terrors…night terrors…and he's been so happy lately. But not in the same way you or I are happy. It's something…wrong. It's the wrong kind of happy." Burning emeralds flit to Gideon. "This is his doing, isn't it? He's made his move. Finally."

The dead man hums and leans back on his heels, hands in his pockets. "You have a long road ahead of you, Harry. And it's not up there." Gideon glances up at the lights dancing above their heads.

Harry follows his gaze, feeling sick to his stomach. "Where…are they going?"

"I have no idea," the ghost says, smiling. "All I know is that it's a place far beyond the veil. I'm excited to find out. Just not quite yet."

"What do I do, Gideon?" Harry cries. "This is wrong, isn't it? To live while they die?"

"Is it?" Gideon's expression is unchanging, nonjudgmental. "I never cared for living by other's moralism. I did what I thought was right for me. Do you think I lived within the law? Do you know how many lawmen beat me because of the colour of my skin? How many people treated me like dirt because I had an illness? An addiction?" He shakes his head. "You need to have a conversation with yourself, Harry…and you need to stop running."

_Stop running...stop running_…those words echo through his mind as he looks back up at the sky, catching the fleeting tails of the dead, leaving this land for someplace beyond this reality. A deep, soul-crushing heartache settles deep within him. This is the price to pay for his life. This is it. All of it. And more, so much more.

"Harry…"

The raven feels that cool hand upon his shoulder. Skin as dry and fragile as a dead autumn leaf. His dead friend's grip is gentle and careful, unlike Malfoy's.

He still has bruises from the man's rough handling. Whenever he takes a bath, he likes to push on the mottled purple skin, causing a spark of pain. He always wonders at how little injury he receives under Draco's care, as opposed to the time he spent with the Order. No, compared to the agony he has had to endure because of Dumbledore and the Order, bruises are nothing to him.

Draco told him to have no doubts. Draco, who slaughtered countless to keep his life.

Those piercing greys flash from the gloom. Captures him entirely.

He lowers his eyes to the ground. Dry, sunbaked dirt packed so hard it's like concrete.

If he imagines hard enough, he can almost pretend it's just a meteor shower. If he imagines hard enough-


	13. Chapter Thirteen: Faces

**Author's Note: **_Trigger warning for mentions of murder, genocide, addiction, alcoholism, and panic attacks. _

_Another week, another chapter! How is everyone doing? I'm having a pretty hectic but fantastic week so far. Lots of ups and downs, but mostly ups. Work is truly enjoyable for the first time ever (who knew I'd enjoy admin?). _

_Remember to keep safe, treat yourself, and always be kind to everyone including the most important person in your life (You!)_

_I hope you enjoy :)_

* * *

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

**Faces**

"They reckon it was forty million-"

"Don't be stupid! It was more like forty thousand-"

"Now who's being stupid?" Jed, of Jed Jule's Jewels, leans in closer to his companion. "Look, all I know is that it was a fuck ton of muggles."

Master Viglio, of Viglio's Violins, grimaces in the candlelight. The shadow twists his grey face. "Mystery illness, they're calling it," he grunts. "Dunno how convinced the muggles are, but their leaders are appeased with the explanation at least. As long as the witnesses are obliviated, then it should be no problem. I heard it took the aurors a good while to untangle the bodies."

"Can you imagine? Gives me the chills just thinking about it." Jed shivers and sips his wine, casting a wary eye around the Leaky Cauldron.

"And what's being done about it, aye? Nothing! Ever since that useless Shacklebolt took office-"

"Oh, I dunno. I rather fancy him. Handsome smile, y'know."

"What's he doing about you-know-who? Is he going to smile him to death?" Viglio snorts and shakes his head, throwing back his dark ale. "We're sitting on our asses when we should be attacking! Taking a firm stance!"

"When did you become such an old codger, Viggi?"

The violin master scowls at the magenta topped jeweller. "Did you read what that Skeeter woman wrote in the Prophet? 'The Order has given no comment.' No comment! Know what that tells me?"

"That they're busy trying to fix everything?"

"That they're incompetent! Running around like headless chicken."

"So what are you doing about it, Viggi?" Jed blinks innocently at his friend, swirling his wine glass just under his nose.

"I'm going after that bounty."

The jeweller pauses and leans back, brows rising. "Bounty?"

The older wizard grins wickedly. "Rumour has it that there's a bounty on the traitor's head. Whoever brings him in is immediately granted the entirety of the Potter fortune."

"Oh really?" Jed scoffs, "Says who?"

"That Weasley boy. Seems like he's been cosying up to the goblins. Struck some kinda deal-"

"You do realise how ridiculous you sound right now."

Viglio's expression darkens and he bangs his tankard against the table. "Either way, I could put an end to this circus."

"Viggi, darling, you make violins that sing operas and tap dance on tables. How do you suppose you'll go after a bounty? I've never even seen you get into a single scrap the entire time I've known you."

"So I sit back and do nothing, like the rest of the world. Let things be as they are. Let you-know-who and his dogs plan and execute another attack. Think we'll be immune? Say, Jed, isn't your mother a muggle?"

Jed pales at that. He takes a rather big gulp of wine. "She's a squib..."

"You think I'm pureblood? You think any of us are anymore? We're as much muggle as the muggles are and it won't be long before you-know-who sets his sights on us."

The two sit in a heavy silence after that. Both grim and deep in thought. Both failing to notice a cloaked figure watching them from the shadows.

* * *

It's been a week since the last of his withdrawals left him – at least physically. Emotionally and mentally, he was still struggling to make sense of his new, sober reality.

In the book about addiction that Draco has tossed at his feet the other day, Harry learned that routine can be an effective way of creating that stability he sorely lacked. So this week, he started said routine.

He rises with the sun and eats the breakfast Silby brings for him. Usually it's eggs, toast, and fruit. Of course there's a copious amount of coffee. If he's going to be a teetotaller, he's going to at least indulge in caffeine.

Once breakfast is over, he visits the library – not because of the books, but because it is the most enclosed room of the estate. While the other rooms are open to the hot morning sun, the library is more like a cave with its small windows. It is, perhaps, an architectural determination to preserve the books.

Harry often sits in an armchair in front of the fire, a random book open on his lap. He would find it difficult to read, but he enjoys the weight on his legs. The warm darkness sends him to sleep within the hour and he would sleep without stirring until Silby wakes him for lunch.

It is the only time he is able to sleep without visiting Voldemort's mind. Perhaps it is because the dark wizard sleeps during the day.

The thought strikes Harry as absurd at present, absently flipping through a large tome about poisons. Voldemort to him, is a creature that has no need for a mere human function such as sleeping. If he did, the dark wizard might already be dead.

After lunch, the raven would normally be found in the grounds, pacing the perimeter of the estate. The ward, while invisible, alerts the encroaching body by emitting an odd smell. Not obvious enough to alert the intruder, but enough to alert the owner of where the boundary lies.

Harry would test the ward, stepping close enough to smell that burning, metallic tang (like blood boiled in an iron pan). He might be tempted to continue walking, if only his heart weren't seized by fear every time.

He would be struck by the same illness that struck him at the rave – difficulty breathing, diminishing sight, and a cold sweat. Jobe called it a 'panic attack' when he explained his symptoms to her one night over a beer. She used to experience it herself when she was a teenager. There would sometimes be a recognisable trigger, like the green lights for Harry, but it can also strike without warning.

It seems as though he has another trigger and he spends his afternoons trying to overcome this new terror. Even if he were granted his freedom, he would never be able to leave willingly as is.

And when the sun disappears over the horizon, he hides away in his room, doing his best to stay awake. Night time is the worst, an agony in itself.

Harry closes the book and leans back in his armchair. The fire crackles and pops, licking away at a charred log, more coal now than wood. He feels his heart fluttering in his chest and the first prickling of sweat on his brow. There's a slight pulsing burn in his scar, but nothing like the agony he experiences when he wakes from his nightmares. He rubs his scar with a frown.

"Never took you for a big reader, Potter."

The tome slides off his lap and falls to the ground with a loud thud. He jerks upright, heart hammering in his chest. With a quick glance around, he catches sight of Malfoy, leaning against the door frame with that infuriating smirk of his. He's dressed in casual wear – casual, meaning suit and tie rather than Death Eater robes – though his hair is slicked back and impeccably neat as per usual.

Harry frowns and turns back to the fire, drawing his knees up to his chin. Even though he knows there is no threat, his heart continues to thrum incessantly.

There's a huff of amusement from behind and the creak of the wooden frame as Malfoy rights himself. "Silby tells me you have been behaving as of late. I must say, I am rather surprised."

Still no answer. All Draco sees is the mess of raven locks bowed between tense shoulders, peeking above the armchair backing. He clicks his tongue in irritation and strides towards the sullen man.

"Nothing to say, Potter? Where did all the fight go?" He stops just before the man and glances down his nose.

Harry avoids those sharp greys, choosing instead to stare into the fire.

The blonde clicks his fingers before Harry's face. "I say, you are being rather _rude_-"

Two dark pits rise to meet his gaze, holding nothing but the purest contempt. The Death Eater stops short, the rest of his words rapidly wilting. He automatically steps back, utterly shaken. "_What_?" he snaps, eyes narrowing into wary slits.

That strange, acidic gaze transforms Harry's face. He's pale and still, impassive to the point of appearing more stone than man. There's a cruel twist of the lips as if he found Malfoy to be a source of great disgust. In all the years he's known Potter, Malfoy has never seen such an expression on his schoolmate's face. It has a bewildering way of making him feel small.

"You dare look at me in such a manner? Do you know _who I am_?" The Malfoy heir slams his hands down on either side of the raven, fingers digging into the cushioned armchair. He leans in close, eyes snapped wide open, pupils constricted in rage.

The raven's gaze is unwavering as is his countenance. Slowly, lowly, he says, "You are Voldemort's little bitch."

Malfoy intakes sharply at those words, uttered in such a monotone. He rears back slightly, glaring hard at the Gryffindor. "Apologise. Now."

"I don't apologise to mass murderers."

A pale hand snatches the raven's neck, squeezes hard. Malfoy leans in until there's an inch between them. Somewhere, in the recesses of his mind, there is a stir as he vaguely notes a soft, citrus smell arising from the man's skin. "As if you are innocent of taking lives," he growls through grit teeth. "Do not preach morals to me, Potter."

"Is it worth it? Killing all those muggles? Does it feel good?" Even though his breath comes strained under Malfoy's violent hand, he still manages to squeeze those scathing words out. Lifeless eyes slide to those greys and hover there. Emeralds so dark they appear coal black.

Draco swallows involuntarily. A pink tinge blooms in his cheeks. "Who says I kill muggles-"

"Don't." Harry glances away, suddenly looking ill. "I know what you did. I know how many people you killed."

Malfoy releases him and draws back entirely, anger giving way to perplexity. He folds his arms across his chest. "And how exactly did you manage to obtain this knowledge?" Greys momentarily flit to the door. "I made sure to keep the rest of the world away from this estate. Unless Silby disobeyed my direct orders-"

"I can't do this. Knowing what you are. What you're doing, while I just sit here, twiddling my fucking thumbs like a useless idiot." A spark of life finally enters the man. Harry raises his head to lock eyes with Draco. "If you want me to protect me, you have to stop killing muggles."

The blonde lets out a hard scoff. "Do you think I have a choice in the matter? Getting my hands dirty is not my idea of a good time, Potter. I do it because I am a Death Eater. You know what will transpire if I should disobey any orders."

"Voldemort obviously finds me valuable. Make it happen."

"I will not be taking orders from a filthy alcoholic-"

The raven slams a fist into the arm of the chair. "_Do it._"

How curious.

Draco studies Potter silently, lips pulled into a thin line. So this is the Chosen One. The great general of the Army of Light. Why is he appearing now? Perhaps sobriety has awakened much more than simple clarity.

"...I will see what I can do."

The raven bows his head and deflates in the armchair. All of a sudden, he's back to Pathetic Potter – coward, traitor, runt. "One more thing," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "I can't sleep. Not at night anyway."

Draco raises a brow, still mulling over that enigmatic face just revealed to him. "So?"

"So," Harry says, irritation drawing his gaze upwards. Clear emeralds strike the clouds. "You do know that your Dark Lord and I are inextricably linked, don't you? Being a Horcrux and all." There's a slight bitterness to his words.

The Slytherin's eyes widen a tad in realisation. "Ah. I see. I suppose I will have to get Silby to give you Sleeping Draught..." A pause. "Tell me, what have you been seeing most recently?"

The raven's expression darkens and his response is hollow, glum. "He's happy. More than he's ever been. I'd even say he's having fun. If that were at all possible for someone like him."

Uneasiness flashes on the Death Eater's face. "Fun. Yes, I expect he does find it enjoyable," he muses. "So it is mostly emotions you experience?" He turns his attention back to Harry, who simply nods.

"Sometimes I see images. Hear sounds. Usually when he's angry."

"And you have seen or heard nothing since arriving here?"

Harry gives Draco the stink eye. "Why? Doesn't your Master give you enough attention?" A scathing edge.

"You will do well to remember who is your present benefactor and protector."

"Yeah, yeah," Harry mutters, "get bent, Malfoy."

While he feels the sudden to urge to beat some manners into the man, Draco finds that a weight has liften from his shoulders. Breath suddenly comes with ease.

No, it wouldn't do to speak to the general too often. Keep him sedated and Potter might even live through this.

He has his doubts, however.

"Is that why you use his name as your own?"

Harry visibly stiffens, face instantly turning impassive. "...what do you mean?"

The blonde sighs, impatiently. "Tom. You called yourself Tom. Why take the name of your sworn enemy?"

There's no reply. Only a long, heavy silence and a glazed look. The Death Eater raises his brows. "Struck a nerve, did I, Potter?"

"You did nothing of the sort, Malfoy," comes the sharp retort. Harry shakes his head and pointedly glances away. "...like I said," he mutters, darkly, "we're linked. In more ways than one. Why? Jealous?" The jabs are feeble. A pathetic attempt at some kind of bravado. What is Potter trying to hide?

Draco shrugs. "Absolutely not." He reaches down and picks up the ancient tome, casting an idle eye over the pages. Poisons...he must be careful with his drinks. He dumps the book in the raven's lap to slight protest.

"I will have Silby bring you the Sleeping Draught," Malfoy says, turning to walk back out the door. "Continue to behave and I might allow you an outing at the end of the week." He pauses. "I will speak to the Dark Lord about your request. But know that you have much less sway in his court than you might like to believe."

Harry frowns at the fire, slumping lower still in his armchair.


	14. Chapter Fourteen: An Outing

**Author's Note: **_Trigger warning for mentions of sex, alcohol, and violence. _

_**I am so sorry for being missing the last two weeks. Things have been insane due to Covid-19, as I'm sure you all know. I am currently in self-isolation as my country is one week into full lockdown. **_

_**I have been unwell – I'm not sure if it's Covid-19 or something else. Body aches, extreme lethargy, nausea, head ache, the works. But I am feeling much better today. I think perhaps I am burnt out from work (it has been incredibly intense leading up to the lockdown) or my issues with sleep catching up to me. **_

_**I'm also trying to deal with abusive relatives, so that's been super draining. Reliving all that fun childhood trauma is exactly what I need!**_

_**Right now, I just want to focus my energy and attention on my work and writing. So expect to see more updates from today. **_

_**I do hope you and your family (chosen or otherwise) stay healthy and safe throughout this uncertain time. I hope this extra silly, extra long chapter helps even just a little. **_

_**Much love to you all. **_

_**Til next time!**_

* * *

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

**An Outing**

"One might believe you have never apparated before," Draco says as he lands gently into a gliding walk.

Harry scowls and picks himself off the ground, brushing the grass from his unruly locks. He adjusts his crooked glasses and glances around, blinking in the sunlight. "Where are we?"

Ignoring him, Draco continues walking up the grassy knoll, hands deep in his suit jacket pockets. There's a slight smile playing on the man's lips which Harry wonders at. He's never seen the Malfoy heir so relaxed before.

With a lurch, he begins following Malfoy, admiring the vast empty field and the rich forests around them. "What is this place?"

A sharp sigh escapes the Slytherin. "Just be quiet and enjoy the view, Potter."

The raven opens his mouth to retort, only to click his teeth together in irritation. He decides to enjoy the view – not because Malfoy told him to, but because he knows he will have little opportunity to experience anything other than the view offered at his bedroom window.

He does a deep intake through his nose and he catches that sharp, dewy scent of a morning at winter's end. The sky is a bold, endless blue, stretching on past the horizon, seemingly forever. The trees are evergreens, deep and dark, wrapping around the field in a protective embrace.

At the top of the knoll, Harry sees a small cabin down below, beside a particularly large evergreen so old, it's slumped at the waist. He stands there for a moment, catching his breath, and feeling dreadfully out of shape. Draco was already crossing the last half of the field, nearing the cabin with his long, purposeful stride.

Those shocking white locks are no longer slicked back but free and loose, tousled about by the wind. His black suit jacket catches the breeze and flaps out behind him, giving him the curious look of a proud raven strutting across the grass. Despite that, he cuts a rather handsome figure, even from this distance, but Harry is loath to admit that.

He hurries down the hill after the Malfoy heir, tripping over his own feet a few times along the way.

As he approaches the cabin, there's the sharp scent of mint growing heavier by the second. He assumes it's a ward and, when asked, Draco simply circles a hand in the air.

"Abraxus – my grandfather – had a penchant for perfume. It is a tradition, I suppose, which I do not find particularly useless."

"Why mint?" Harry asks, stumbling through the short picket fence after Malfoy.

"It is inoffensive." A beat. "Though my father thinks otherwise."

Harry can almost hear the smile in Draco's voice, dry as his tone might be.

The flowerbeds planted around the cabin are in full bloom and rather odd. One smells strongly of strawberry ice cream, while another emits a tinkling tune akin to a glass wind chime. He pauses only briefly to admire the botany, before following Malfoy into the cabin through the front door.

The first thing Harry realises as he steps over the threshold is how cosy it is. He had expected something to be on a similar scale to the mansion, but instead he finds it is rather small.

The vestibule is dark with a large wicker basket full of shoes and a red wood cloak rack against the left wall. Up ahead is a hallway to other rooms and to the right is an archway leading into the lounge. The only light in the cabin is the afternoon light streaming in through the windows and the fire crackling away in the hearth.

Malfoy carefully takes off his suit jacket and hangs it on the cloak rack, brushing off invisible dirt as he does so. He rolls up his sleeves – or rather folds meticulously – to just below his elbows.

Draco gives the raven a bored glance. "What are you staring at, Potter? Hurry up and take that ridiculous robe off."

Harry clutches at the flowery and silken dress robe wrapped around his thin frame, being much too big. He found it in an old chest while exploring one day and ever since he had refused to part with it. He didn't know why, but he found the old, ratty thing quite comforting.

"I'm fine," he says, quickly folding his arms around himself protectively. "Malfoy, what is this place?"

The blonde enters the lounge and starts flinging open all the windows, letting a cool breeze into the stuffy room. "It is my sanctuary. You should be grateful for this opportunity. I have only ever revealed this location to one other person."

Harry steps in after him, glancing around and brushing his fingers across ancient ornaments. "Why did you bring me here?"

"In case the estate is compromised – I want you to come here. It would not do to have just one safe house. This location is the most secure – as its existence is only known by you and I."

"I thought you showed this place to another person?" Harry picks up a china unicorn from the tea table as he sinks into the couch. He twirls it around in his hands.

The Malfoy heir visibly stiffens, back to Harry, hands white around the window frame. "…I can assure you," he says, dryly, "this location is secure."

"Whatever." Harry shrugs and tosses the unicorn to the side. It bounces off the couch cushions and onto the wooden floorboards. As expected, it doesn't smash.

Malfoy however, turns to the raven with a cold expression. Wolfish greys glint with an icy anger.

"Pick it up," he says, voice low.

Chill douses the raven's insides. Feeling his cheeks burn, he picks up the unicorn and slams it onto the tea table. The wood shudders under his hand.

Grey eyes narrow into slits, boring two holes into the Gryffindor. "You will cease this childish act."

"Let's go, Malfoy," Harry says, loudly, kicking at the tea table. The unicorn falls over and rolls, saved only by the round base. "This isn't the outing you promised."

The Malfoy heir rises to his feet, towering over the seated man. He flicks his wind tousled hair from his eyes and clicks his tongue in irritation.

"What? Gonna smack me again?" While his tone is sharp and taunting, Harry feels a tremble through his limbs.

"I promised an outing. Nothing more, nothing less. Does this not constitute as such?"

"Fuck no! Have you never been on an outing?"

"…I have." That arrogant chin rises. "Many, in fact."

"Boring old Slytherin dinner parties and missions for your Dark Lord don't count, Malfoy."

The blonde seems genuinely taken aback for a moment, eyes widening a tad as he stares at Harry. The Death Eater rubs the side of his jaw with the tip of his thumb, an absent gesture. For some reason, the raven finds this rather enchanting.

"Then tell me what your definition of an outing is," Draco challenges, brows dropping low.

Harry leans back in the couch and brings his foot up to the edge of the tea table. "An outing is when you go out and do something _fun_, Malfoy. Like drinking or dancing or fucking or whatever! Sometimes, if you have enough money, you might wanna go for a dinner date at a fancy restaurant. Or watch the latest horror film at the cinemas. Not that I've done either of those things…but still. That's what _normal_ people do."

A blank expression settles on Malfoy's pale face. The raven suppresses a powerful urge to tease the snow-topped wizard.

"Look, what do you do in your free time?" Harry asks with a tinge of exasperation. Why is Malfoy so confused? Is he speaking a different language?

"Free time? No time is free, Potter. If I am not fulfilling my duties to the Dark Lord, I am studying and training under my father's tutelage."

That makes Harry raise a brow. "Seriously? You don't even have time to jerk off?"

Pink tinges bloom in those pale cheeks. "I do not _jerk off_, Potter. That is utterly disgusting."

A howl of laughter bursts from Harry, making Malfoy jump in surprise. "You…you…don't…are you serious?" he squeezes out between stuttered peals.

Pink deepens into a stunning crimson. "I do not see why I have to," Draco says, tone clipped. "Not everyone needs to rut about like a beast in heat. It is unseemly for the Malfoy heir to act in such a manner."

Harry clamps his mouth shut and swallows the rest of his laughter. He rubs his chest in idle circles as he stares at the hassled heir. "Are you a virgin, Malfoy?"

The look on Draco's face is one that Harry has never seen before. Grey eyes wide and round, mouth popped open in shock, and brows so high they disappear under white locks. There's a creak, then a splutter, and a hard, indignant huff. "I…I am _not_-it is _none of your business_!" he shrieks, voice a little too high pitched.

A grin splits the raven's face. "There's nothing to ashamed of, Malfoy. I think it's kinda cute. Who knew the big bad Death Eater was so inexperienced-"

"_Cute_?" Draco heaves, chest puffing out as if he were a infuriated toucan. "You will stop this _at once_," he orders, finger stabbing the air in front of Harry's face. "I will not play your ridiculous games, Potter."

As if a switch were flicked, the life from Harry's face suddenly gives way to a smooth facade – flat and dull-eyed. Those inky pits lose focus and drift from the Slytherin to the corner of the room.

Feeling the back of his neck prickle, Draco quickly follows Potter's unsteady gaze. There is nothing out of the ordinary – just an empty armchair and an antique bookshelf set where the walls meet.

The blonde clears his throat, feeling rather uneasy. He glances back at the man, now sitting as still as a statue. Draco straightens up and smooths back his hair. "_If _I were to indulge you...what sort of 'outing' would you suggest then?" Those words feel foreign to his mouth, but he relents – anything to stave off the General.

Harry doesn't stir. His whole attention seems to be taken by the armchair.

Or something _in _the armchair.

A chill runs down Malfoy's spine. He chastises himself silently, trying his best not to follow that train of thought. "Potter, are you listening to me?" he snaps, brows falling.

"Jobe."

The name came as if it were a sigh – or a sob. A strange meaningless noise to Draco's ears.

"What? What is that?"

Dark orbs finally slide form armchair to the blonde. Linger there, still unsteady. "Jobe," Harry says, loudly. "I want to see Jobe."

Confusion reins for a moment, before clarity strikes. Draco scoffs and leans back on his heels. "Ah yes. That...muggle..." Lips twist as he swallows an insult. "That is not possible. To return to Aldeford would prove counterproductive. I did not spend all this time and effort keeping you alive, only to have you walking back into the Order's grasp. Do you regard me as a simpleton?"

"Got it in one," Harry shoots back, words dripping with venom. The General's gaze narrows into deadly slits. "Take me to Jobe. Or deal with what I'm about to do next. Your choice, Malfoy."

Cold greys widen. For the umpteenth time, Draco feels suddenly lost – untethered and uncertain. It is a feeling he absolutely loathes. "I do not care to be threat-"

"_Is that your final answer_?" Harry rises to his feet, face pale and eyes hollow.

The two men stare at each other, one impassive, the other filled with a chilling uncertainty.

It doesn't take long for the taller man to stumble. He glances away quickly and clicks his tongue in irritation. "You should be grateful for my unending generosity and patience," he says, dryly.

Harry intakes deeply and his expression softens. A faint smile plays on his lips. A hint of light returns to his gaze. "Of course," he returns, softly.

* * *

Down the dirt road, comes a tall, older gentleman with a refined air. He carries a silver topped cane and wears his silver hair slicked back neatly without a single strand out of place. A simple grey suit gives him the air of a modern academic. There's nothing dusty about this lord. There are deep frown lines in that otherwise elegant face. Hawkish eyes flit this way and that before landing on his shorter companion.

The smaller figure walks with an unsteady gait, long black hair held up in a messy bun. By the sway of the hips and the delicate features, one would assume this to be the lord's lady. Most of her face is hidden by large glasses, bookish and round. She wears a simple spring dress, cream and demure. Around her shoulders sits a thick pastel yellow shawl to stay the chill.

Prying eyes might linger on this couple for a moment, but they are not wholly out of place. One might assume they are a wealthy couple in town for the weekend – perhaps to study, perhaps to play. Either way, they are generally left alone and left unscrutinised.

The lady pauses to adjust her shoe, reaching down to pull out a stone. She frowns and glances up at her companion, cheeks blooming pink. "Is this necessary?" she asks, voice soft and low.

"Indeed. If you wish to visit this...Jobe...we must take all precautions." The lord clears his throat and knocks a stray tree branch out of his way with his cane. "I loathe country towns. So unrefined and unruly. Do they not maintain their properties?"

Emeralds rolls behind thick rimmed glasses. The lady tugs down her skirt with both hands as if she were over-exposed. "Fine, I get the need to 'take precautions'...but why the fucking dress, Malfoy?" the lady hisses, shooting her companion a sharp look.

"Because she is everything you are not. A well-cultured lady of a noble English household. You, on the other hand, are a filthy, alcoholic rat lacking even the most basic manners." A smirk tugs at the lord's lips. "No-one would suspect you to be you."

"Get bent, Malfoy," Harry mutters through a scowl.

An arm rises quickly, barring the lady from walking any further. Harry glances up, irritation rising. "_What_?" he snaps, not caring to disguise his voice.

Draco stares straight ahead, a severe expression deepening those wrinkles. "Take care, Potter. Lest they hear you."

The lady glances up the road and sees a few figures loitering around the stone archway leading to the town square. Emeralds narrow before widening in dismay. "_Shit."_

All three figures are recognisable even from this distance. Hair, red as a cloudless sky in sunset. One with longer locks, swept up in a militant bun. The other tall and gangly. The third figure has bushy brown hair, barely tamed in a pony tail.

A sudden gust of wind carries familiar laughter and chatter towards Harry, dousing him in the turmoil he thought he had long suppressed.

Draco catches sight of that wretched expression on the raven's face, and there's an odd twist in his stomach again. As if his organs were being squeezed. He frowns and, without thinking, places a hand on the smaller man's shoulder. "Potter. Focus," he says, though without the usual sharpness.

Harry swallows thickly, wrapping his shawl around himself tightly. "Should we just disappar-"

The shorter ginger points his way and all three turn their faces towards him. Harry feels his heart drop.

"Easy, Potter. You are not you." Draco straightens up and grips Harry's elbow, nudging him forwards. "It is too late to turn back now. This is what you wanted, remember?" Poison. The blonde readjusts his tone. "Calm down and play your part."

"I-I don't know if I-" Harry's breath hitches as he's forced to continue walking. His three old friends, once family, draw ever closer. He dips his head and clutches his shawl across his chest, heart hammering a thousand miles a minute. Why is he so frightened? Is this what it was like the whole time? Was he just too drunk to even notice?

"Be unexpected," Gideon sings, falling into step beside him. "And work that gorgeous dress, girl!"

_Shut up, Gideon. Please! _

"Oh, you'll be fine. Remember that time we broke into Salvos and played dress up? Think Lady Primrose of Trashland!"

Harry falters for a breath as memories slam into him with full vigor. _Lady Primrose_. A faint smile touches him.

"That's it. You can do this. For Jobe." Gideon wraps his arms around the shaken raven, and while Harry feels nothing, his heart settles into a steady beat.

As the lord and lady stands before Ron, Ginny, and Hermione, the latter draw themselves up and inspect the new arrivals with intense scrutiny. Ron steps a little too close to Harry, who presses himself against Draco's side instinctively.

"Sorry to bother," Ron says, loudly. He raises a brow at the couple, thankfully only really paying attention to the older gentleman. "But we're looking for someone. Take a look at this, won't you?"

Hermione steps forward, throwing her boyfriend a sharp look before smiling at the couple. "If you don't mind, of course," she adds, apologetically. She holds out a piece of paper towards the lord and lady. WANTED – and underneath that, a familiar face, albeit much, much younger.

"This is the most recent photo we have – though he would be five years older now," Hermione continues, making sure both have a good view of the poster.

Harry dares a quick glance at the Weasleys and finds Ron standing even closer than before. He almost chokes on his own breath and quickly wraps his hands around Draco's arm.

"If you would stop crowding my wife, perhaps we would be able to properly assist you in your search," Draco raises, tone cold and words clipped.

Ron blinks and jerks back, as if only now realising how close he was to the lady. Ears burn a deep red. "Oh...uh...yeah. Sorry. It's just..." Watery blue eyes squint at the raven, who is practically burying his face into Draco's arm. "Have I seen you before?"

"Ron, you're scaring her!" Hermione chides, brows tilted worriedly as she glances to the shy lady.

Behind her fellow Order members, Ginny, ever the soldier, stands at attention. Her silent gaze flitting from lord to lady and back.

"My wife is rather ill. We were on our way to her mother's before we were so rudely interrupted." The lord frowns at Ron as if he were but a child. "You would do well to stay back, lest you catch her illness."

Ron backpedals hastily at that, coming to stand at his sister's side with a grim expression.

"Hmf." The lord snatches the poster from Hermione's hand as she glares at Ron. The sudden movement makes her jump and she lets out a surprised squeak.

Silver eyes rake the picture of the grey-faced teenager, who looks far beyond his years. He tosses the poster back at Hermione, who scrambles to catch it. "I have not seen this youth. Now will you let us pass? Lest my wife collapses here and now."

"Oh!" Hermione flusters, stepping back to allow the lord and lady to pass. "Of course. I do apologise. Thank you for your help! I do hope you feel better soon!" she calls to Harry.

Harry gives a weak wave of acknowledgement as they pass the trio, bile edging up his throat. He did truly feel as ill as the lady ostensibly is – limbs shaking and cold sweat making the dress cling to his damp back.

"You did wonderfully," Gideon says, patting Harry on the back. "Lady Primrose of Trashland!"

"Easy, Potter," the lord mutters as he practically carries the lady further up the road. "They are still watching."

Panting, Harry tries to pull himself up and carry his own weight. Every step is wobbly, but manageable. The further they walk, the better he feels.

"That poor woman," Hermione sighs, trying to flatten out the creases in the poster against her leg. "She did look quite pale, didn't she?"

Ron shrugs and drops to his haunches, chin in hand. "I'm starving. Can we go eat now? Could do with an beer too." He glances up at his sister, who stands motionless in the road. Her eyes track the couple now just two dots in the distance. "Ginny? What's up?"

The youngest Weasley maintains her intense stare for another minute, before relaxing a tad. "Nothing. Just..." She glances to Ron and Hermione, who are watching her with some concern. Ginny gives them a sharp nod. "Let's go eat."

* * *

"It is too dangerous. We are returning to the estate. _Now_."

Harry glares up at Draco, eyes squinted against the sunlight. While his pallor is still sickly, he seems to be more alert than before. "We've come this far. I'm not leaving without seeing Jobe. _And_ Mrs. Alde- Margaret."

"What? _Who_?" Draco glances up the road, fingers clutching the holstered wand at his side. "No more, Potter. This place is crawling with aurors and the Order-"

"_That's _why I need to see Margaret! I need to make sure she's alright. She's the first person the Order would go to." Harry pulls himself up to his feet and leans heavily against the tree trunk. He wipes the sweat from his face with the corner of his shawl. "I never took you for a coward, Malfoy. Running away at the first sign of trouble."

The lord watches his lady closely, lips pulled back into a thin grimace. "I know what you are doing, Potter. You are a fool to think I am so easy to manipulate." His gaze whips across the raven's damp face. His upper lip curls in distaste. "Before you call me a coward, you should look at the disgusting state you are currently in. All because of those three idiots."

Harry drops his gaze at the mention of his old friends. He shivers and wraps his arms around himself, feeling quite raw.

Malfoy sees all this and he huffs a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. What is wrong with his stomach? Has he fallen ill as well? "Very well. As I am sure you would go ahead and do so without me – which is more perilous than the alternative." He lowers his hand and gives Harry a stern look. "Stay close to me and do as I say. No exceptions."

Harry raises his eyes and gives his lord a faint smile. "Always."


	15. Chapter Fifteen: Jobe

**Author's Note: **_Trigger warning for mentions of alcohol use, death, sex, and panic attacks. _

**_Here's another chapter! I just sat down this morning and couldn't stop writing. I haven't had this much fun writing in forever! It's so cathartic for me. All my anxieties seemed to melt away by the time I finished writing this chapter._**

**_I'm going to keep going with the next chapter, so expect it shortly (if I manage to keep this up, that is!). _**

**_I think I might look for a beta reader by the time I hit 50k – reading back over all my mistakes and poor grammar is an agony in itself. Is that how it works? Gosh, I haven't written a fanfiction since I was a teenager._**

**_Hope everyone's doing well today! Stay safe and healthy :)_**

**_Much love._**

* * *

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

**Jobe**

There was only one other person at the funeral - a bleeding heart from a local charity that paid for the service and the plot. Jobe let the woman say her well-worn platitudes but she didn't feel the need to offer any in return. Her best friend was dead – no amount of sorry's or heaven-has-one-more-angel's would bring him back now.

Jobe always thought that heaven was a nice idea – but as she numbly plays some soulless song on her guitar outside Aldeford Station, she realises that heaven is a simple comfort. One that cannot soothe the trauma of losing one so loved.

She doesn't know where the past month went. It's a haze of walking, drinking, crying, and begging. Maybe there was a girl or two – but she only gets a faint impression of sweat and strawberry lip balm. There's scratches on her hips that she can't remember getting. She can only hope she had a good time while it lasted.

The song she's playing now is an old one. Her grandfather taught her this tune – a pretty American one from the prohibition days. Grandpa Lester used to tell her stories of bars disguised as a barber shop. "The chairs would flip," he said, "and up comes an entire bar stocked full of the finest wines and spirits!"

Of course, in hindsight, he was much too young to have been alive during that era, and as far as she knows, Grandpa Lester had always lived in Manchester. Born and bred, as they say.

The pain that she feels now is not dissimilar to the one she felt when Grandpa Lester passed away. At least Lester's funeral was packed with family and friends. Gideon had no-one. No-one but her that is, and a well-intentioned stranger called Maude.

All she knows is that there was one other person who should have been there and he wasn't. The only person who can tell her what really happened. Heart attack, they said. Heart attack? She heard different from the party goers that night.

Gideon had leapt in front of Tom, as if he were taking a bullet for him. But there were no bullet holes and he died instantly.

That was no heart attack.

Jobe strums the final chord with a vicious stroke. A white pain sears across the back of her hand as the bottom string snaps. "Fuck!" The musician flaps her sore hand in the air before bringing it to her mouth, sucking on the bruised area. "Fuck."

A string costs money. Money she doesn't have.

Fuck.

"There's no use being angry at him," a familiar voice gently reminds her. "It wasn't his fault."

Jobe spits and swings her guitar over her shoulder. She glares at an offended old bat who scurries past with an outraged mutter.

"You know it wasn't his fault, kid."

"Then whose fault was it?" Jobe snaps, turning a narrowed eye at the spectre that follows beside.

Gideon shrugs and shoves his hands into his pockets, looking far brighter and younger than he has in years. "I don't know. Does it matter? I'm already dead, aren't I?"

"He should've been there," Jobe grumbles, stalking up the road. "He wouldn't have run if he wasn't guilty."

"People run for many reasons, kid," Gideon says, admiring the spring flowers scattered along the side street. "Did you run because you were guilty?"

The woman frowns and huffs. "I ran because there was nothing left for me. I wanted to move on. My parents wanted to live in the past. I didn't have time for that shit."

The older man gives her a pointed look. "A valid reason."

"Yeah, well, doesn't mean he's not an asshole for ditching me."

"He's definitely an asshole for that."

A wry smile curls her lips. She swings her guitar back around and picks out an idle tune. A trio of strangers walk past, arguing in good humour. A man and two women. Her eye lingers on the scarlet haired woman, marching stiffly down the road as if she were doing drills. Cute. But too uptight.

There's been an influx of tourists lately in the area. Strange folk too, some with eccentric fashion tastes. She reckons it's the spring bringing the tourists in, perhaps they have holiday houses in the country. Rich folk do that, don't they? Go to the country for a holiday?

"Vising the old coot again today?" Gideon asks, patting Jobe on the shoulder.

"Nothing better to do," Jobe shrugs. "She's got no-one else but that idiot son of hers. Now that Tom's up and left."

"You've a good heart, kid."

"Fuck off, Gideon."

* * *

The ex-Chosen One had fallen into a sullen silence for the past hour. He refuses to meet Draco's eyes now, even as he attempts to make 'small-talk' – a past time that the Slytherin loathes with a passion.

They have stopped to rest at a park in town at Draco's behest – Harry had slowed his pace to nothing more than a crawl, sweat continuing to bead the pale man's face with every step. The Death Eater is uncertain to what ails the man, but he suspects it may not be something physical.

"Lighten up, Potter. While it is a bit of a kill-joy running into those three morons, it is a rather fetching day – wouldn't you say? Enjoy your freedom while it lasts," he adds with a smirk, only half-serious.

Potter simply picks at the grass, face hidden by a curtain of ebony locks. Draco sighs and tries again.

"You act as if my generosity is a burden. Do you not spend all day, every day, attempting to attain such freedom?"

Harry finally stirs at that and he glances up at the blonde, brows lowered in confusion.

"Oh, do not play ignorant with me, Potter. I know you spend hours trying to surpass the estate wards. Do you not understand how they work? You do know you can simply walk out, do you not? Getting in without a Malfoy by your side may be more of a challenge, however."

"I know...that's not...I know how wards work," Harry huffs, though his irritation is watered down.

"Then what is it? While I know not being able to disapparate without me is rather inconvenient, that is not my doing - it is simply how the wards-"

"No...I mean, yes. I knew that." Harry frowns and glances away, shoulders rising. "...I'm not trying to escape. I just...the wards make me...nervous. Like, panicky. And I'm trying to...I dunno. Beat it or something." He flashes a glare at Malfoy. "None of your business anyway. You better stop spying on me, Malfoy, or I'll-"

"What? Walk?" Draco scoffs and leans back against the tree trunk. He opted to stand rather than sit in the dirt – something that Harry seemed quite at home with. "Explain to me. About this panic. Why does it stop you from surpassing the wards? Is it a curse?"

The raven blinks up at the Death Eater. "Huh? No, it's...like a mental thing. I get these panic attacks sometimes-"

"Panic attacks?" Draco stares blankly at Harry.

"It's an illness. Kinda. I feel like I can't breathe...and the world just...flips. Turns into something else. Something scary. Like I've gone down the rabbit hole."

"Rabbit hole?"

"You know, like Alice in-" Harry pauses as he realises who he's speaking to. "Right. It's a muggle thing."

"Ah." Malfoy frowns, both perplexed and irritated by the fact that Harry confuses him with such ease. "Well, whatever it is, you would do well to cease your little daily activity. If something were to happen to the wards, I cannot guarantee your safety."

"Fine. Whatever." Harry glumly returns to picking at the grass.

A citrus scent floats up to Draco's face, tickles his skin. He clicks his tongue and turns his attention elsewhere. There's an odd emptiness within him, as if he were climbing a rope ladder, only to be cut down before reaching the top rung. What is this feeling called?

Ah. That's right. Helplessness.

For the first time in a long while, Draco felt helpless, though he is uncertain as to why.

* * *

Harry stares blankly at the sign.

"How strange," Draco muses, peering up at the old building. "Do you suppose she's dead?"

Harry quickly glances at the taller man, face twisted in anxiety. Draco's stomach flips when he sees that wide eyed expression and he hastily adds, "It is a joke, Potter. Calm down."

Emeralds glisten for a moment before the raven turns his face towards the B&B again. The windows are dark and the doors are closed. The garden is unkempt and already overgrown. A chaos that is not calculated. A wildness that suggests neglect.

He glances at the sign again, eyes squinted in scrutiny.

**FOR SALE**

**Call XXX-XXX for a viewing**

"I need a phone," Harry says suddenly, turning to Malfoy. "I need to call that number."

Draco raises a brow. "And what exactly is a forn?"

"A phone," the raven corrects him, picking up his skirt in both hands. He starts down the road, trying to wrack his brain for any memories of a phone booth. "A device muggles use to...uh...communicate with each other, I suppose."

"Hm. Sounds dreadfully inconvenient," Draco drawls, following after the determined lady. "Make it quick, Potter. I do not wish to remain here any longer than necessary. And not because I am afraid," he adds quickly, pointedly.

"Sure, Malfoy." Harry spots a red booth up ahead, just on the corner of the intersection. He prompts the Death Eater to wait outside, before getting into the phone booth.

Draco sighs and leans against a low garden wall, tapping his cane against his side. Potter is speaking urgently into that odd black thing, shaped like a banana. He wonders absently how it works – before cutting his own thoughts short. It is muggle technology, therefore inferior by nature. There is no point ruminating on it any further.

He scans his surroundings, seeing nothing but quiet country cottages and thriving spring gardens. He expects aurors to rush him and Potter at any second, but there is a sense of peace in this moment. Something he vaguely hopes to indulge in when the war is over. For now, every inch of him is at alert, though his outward demeanor suggests otherwise.

The Malfoy heir thinks back on the night before, when he visited Ibeus Manor. His father was absent, having gone to deliver a message to a Death Eater stationed in Egypt. There was a sense of relief that washed over Draco as Reyansh told him this. A relief that was short-lived.

"He wishes to see you," Reyansh said, glittering eyes narrowed behind his silver mask.

Draco blinked at his partner, head tilted. "Who does?"

"Who do you think?" Reyansh said, irately. "He's in the ball room."

Dread doused his insides, but the blonde managed to proffer his partner a polite nod before gliding past him. The walk to the ball room – or rather, the Dark Lord's throne room – was long and agonising. Every step was inundated with anxiety and fear. Did he do something wrong? Was it the way he handled Potter? What did Lucius tell the Dark Lord? Was he going to die?

_Calm yourself, Draco_, he chided himself silently, pausing outside the ball room doors. They were wall length with intricate patterns of runes and ancient languages carved into the white gold. Lavish and imposing, as was the wizard just beyond.

He breathed in deeply and straightened his robes before pushing open the doors.

All he saw in the gloom was a tall, graceful figure seated in what appeared to be a throne. The vast dancing floor between him and his lord was polished black. A distinct lack of shoe scuff was hard to ignore. Ibeus must have been a lonely man.

Draco paused in the doorway, fidgeting nervously under his robes. A white hand reached out from the shadows and beckoned him with a clawed finger.

He bowed deeply and slowly approached, head bent so all he could see was his own reflection in the ebony floor, as smooth as a lake on a windless day.

When he reached the platform, he stopped and stood still, head still bowed.

There was an agonisingly long silence – but he knew that his lord was studying him. He felt the burden of his gaze, heavy and stifling.

"Draco..." The Dark Lord's voice was soft and wispy, a curling smoke in still air.

"Y-yes, my lord," Draco stammered, voice muffled by his mask.

"Since Lucius is...absent...you will give your report to me directly."

"Yes, my lord." Oh damn, oh fuck, oh shit! Draco gripped the side of his robes in both hands, bunching up the fabric in his tight grip.

"You have grown taller...filled out quite nicely...unlike your father..." A hint of amusement in the Dark Lord's faint voice, poison only injected at the mention of Lucius.

Draco pricked up his ears at that. Was his father in the Dark Lord's ill graces? What happened? "Th-thank you, my lord."

"Remove your mask."

The Malfoy heir obeyed his lord, straightening up and pulling off his silver mask. He kept his eyes on the ground all throughout, heart hammering almost painfully against his ribs.

"Look at me."

Draco reluctantly raised his gaze to the Dark Lord. With a sickening jolt, he realised the dark wizard was staring at him with an unbridled intensity. Visible at this distance, he was surprised to see his lord looking more man than snake. His features were refined and handsome, albeit with skin and eyes like frosted ice, and snake-like fangs that flashed in the dim light with every cold smile he gave his Death Eater.

"What a pretty one you turned out to be," the Dark Lord hummed, running a clawed finger across the side of his own jaw. "You look more like your mother than your father...what luck you have..."

"Thank you, my lord." Draco bowed his head, feeling nauseous under his lord's deep scrutiny. He felt more violated than anything. "I consider myself lucky as well."

The Dark Lord hummed a laugh, pleased by the Death Eater's response. "Did you hear that, Bhaya? Perhaps this one may prove worthy yet."

A low hiss, deafening in this echo chamber, seeped from behind the throne.

The Malfoy heir let out a panicked pant, not of his own volition. He kept rooted to the spot, however, not willing to show any weakness in front of his lord. He had heard rumours that the Dark Lord had replaced Nagini with a new great snake - only this one was supposed to be more vicious and cunning than the last.

"Your report then, Draco," the Dark Lord ordered, twitching a clawed finger in the air.

"Yes, my lord." Draco cleared his throat, nervously, before continuing. "Potter has recovered largely from his illness. I believe he is beginning to trust me – it will only be a matter of time before he is within your control, my lord."

"And the Order?"

"Still dealing with the fallout from our...gift...my lord. They have also embarked on a 'rescue' mission to recover Potter."

"Good. Keep them occupied. Make sure they do not get in the way of what is truly important."

Draco glanced up at that, his surprise evident. The Dark Lord bared his fangs. "In due time, Draco. Continue."

"Yes. Ah." He breathed in sharply before continuing. "There is one thing, my lord." A hesitation. "Potter has...expressed his ah...disapproval of my work. He said that as long as I kill muggles, he will not co-operate with me."

The Dark Lord raised a fine brow, giving Draco a most unimpressed look.

"My point is," Draco hastened, "he will always know when and where I kill muggles, as my orders come from you, my lord."

The dark wizard leaned back in his throne, pressing his fingertips into his lower lip. "Of course. I had a feeling he was watching me. Our bond is growing stronger by the day, which makes him a perfect weapon for the Order should they succeed in their mission." Emotionless eyes dropped down to Draco's greys and held them effortlessly. "Consider yourself excused from any further missions. Your focus will entirely be on Potter. Make yourself his lifeline. Make him wholly dependant on you, physically, emotionally, and mentally. Have him swear to you his entire being."

Draco blinked and stepped back, confusion writ across his face. "His entire being, my lord?"

"_Do not play ignorant, child, I have little patience_." In a flash, the Dark Lord's face seemed to turn reptilian, monstrous and distorted in the glim - a venomous snake about to strike.

"Apologies, my lord." Almost choking in fear, the Death Eater lowered his head in a submissive bow, insides shaking and limbs quaking under that predatory stare.

"Do whatever it takes to have him. Sell your soul if you have to. _Potter will be mine_."

The Dark Lord disappeared back into the gloom, pale hand dismissing Draco with a small wave.

Whatever it takes.

Draco looks back at Harry at present. The ebony is slamming the plastic banana back onto the communication box. The Death Eater tilts his head, calculating greys inspecting the irate lady. Perhaps he suits a dress better than pants-

"That FUCKING BASTARD!"

Malfoy jolts back to earth as Harry explodes out of the phone booth, all skirt and hair. The raven turns his simmering gaze to the Slytherin with a ferocity he had long gone without witnessing. For some reason, he finds himself pleased to see the shorter man in such a state.

"That fucking asshole kicked his own mother out of her own home and he's putting it up for sale, can you believe it? I mean, is that even legal? What the _fuck_? Who the fuck is he, anyway? Where was he the last five years? She never even mentioned a son to me-"

Draco holds up his hand to Potter's mouth, stopping him mid-rant. "Need I remind you that we are in _disguise_, dear wife?"

The raven jerks his head away and slaps Malfoy's hand aside with a grumble. His cheeks bloom pink from the unexpected touch. "Margaret's son...some dickhead called Robert or whatever...he said that she's gone mad. He's stuck her in the retirement village and took her assets away."

Emeralds rapidly turn dark as his anger turns inwards. He grabs Draco by the arm and squeezes painfully. Enraptured, the Death Eater lets him. "We have to help her, Malfoy. I'm not leaving this shithole town before making sure she is alright."

Whatever it takes.

"Fine," the Death Eater sighs. "I am uncertain of muggle proceedings regarding property ownership – but if you wish to release this Margaret from the retirement town (whatever that may be), then I suppose that is but a small diversion."

"Good. Try to keep up, Malfoy." Without another word, Harry races up the street, skirt held up in both hands, heels clicking furiously against the asphalt.


	16. Chapter Sixteen: Destruction of Aldeford

**Author's Note: **_Trigger warning for self harm, mental illness, medication, and trauma._

**_I hope you enjoy this chapter!_**

**_Til next time :)_**

* * *

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

**The Destruction of Aldeford**

Her room is cold when she enters, having left Hermione and Ron to finish their lunches in the pub downstairs.

She sits on her bed and stares blankly out the window. Orange leaves sway in the wind outside, brushing the glass with every wave. There is a question plaguing the youngest Weasley, but she doesn't know how to answer it.

Of course she recognised Harry. She had studied every inch of him during the time they were together. Hermione and Ron may have been fooled, but they didn't know him like she did. How intimately she knew him inside and out.

Why couldn't she say anything? It was as if in that moment, she was encased in steel, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to do anything but simply be. She was Neville's most loyal soldier, a dedicated auror working for the Order – and yet she let the traitor slip right out of her hands without a second thought.

"You _idiot_!" Ginny growls through grit teeth, slamming a fist into the side of her head. "You utter _moron_! _You fucking weakling_!"

She jumps to her feet, breath coming shallow and fast, and she paces her tiny room with the restlessness of one in captivity. She is still weak. Her heart still uncertain. She always criticised others whenever they revealed such uncertainty – and look at her now! What a hypocrite.

Wave after wave of utter self-loathing churns within her, acidic and all consuming. She brandishes her wand and grips it so tight, her fingers turn numb. Hazel eyes blaze with the heat of her hate. Steel capped boots come to a stop. "It's yours to fix, Weasley," she mutters, teeth bared in a vicious, mirthless grin. "No more fuck ups. _No more_!"

* * *

"Heya Midge," Jobe sings as she throws open the door, "do I have a song for you!"

Margaret Aldeford barely stirs in her wheelchair, parked in front of the window. Her nurse, a kindly, broad-faced fellow with a wonderful smile, chuckles when he sees Jobe enter. "Oh, Margaret! Look who's here to see you again?"

The old lady, once sharp and intelligent, can only mumble incoherently and drool onto her dressing grown. While disturbing, Jobe learned it was due to her medication. Apparently high doses of anti-psychotics can make a patient produce too much saliva, thus making them drool uncontrollably.

Part of it, Jobe suspects, has to do with Harry leaving and her snake of a son taking advantage of her. Anyone would become depressed after everything Margaret had been through recently.

"You're looking cute as always, Midge. Did Josef help you with your makeup gain?" Jobe drops into the rocking chair beside Margaret, guitar in lap. She flashes the nurse a grin and he chuckles in turn.

"Unfortunately," Josef says, scratching the side of his head. "I've been learning from YouTube videos, so I'm not really good yet. I think I'm getting the hang of contouring though – what do you think?" He waves to Margaret's made up face and while it's admittedly sloppy, the care is evident.

Jobe whistles and nods her approval. She throws up two thumbs. "Great work, Jojo. You got Midge looking like a movie star."

Margaret turns her gaze slowly from the window, as if disturbed by the sudden racket. Watery greys as dark as storm clouds stare blankly at her jovial visitor. Jobe waves and offers the old lady a warm smile.

"How are you doing, Jobe? It got a bit cold last night, didn't it?" Josef gives the musician a worried look as he continues making up his patient's bed.

"It's alright. I'm used to it." The woman waves away Josef's concern and picks out a calming tune on her guitar. Five strings is a bitch, but she can make do for the moment. "I wouldn't mind some pudding though. Got any left?"

The nurse hums amusedly and folds the last sheet neatly on the bed. He straightens up and brushes off his hands. "I'll see what I can do," he says with a wink.

"Thanks, you're a sweetheart." Jobe glances to Margaret, brows creasing a tad.

"She'll be fine," Josef says, catching that worried look. "While I know it might appear to be overkill with the meds, I can assure you, it's only to help her."

"They know what's wrong with her yet?" Jobe asks, leaning over to readjust the old lady's gown.

Josef sighs and shakes his head, clean bedpan in hand. "Her doctor reckons it's something to do with sudden trauma. But it's strange...she displays symptoms and behaviours similar to brain trauma patients – but her scans came back clean." He places the bedpan underneath the bed. "I've personally seen nothing like it myself. I know Margaret. I know how sharp she was. Dunno what could have caused this, really."

Jobe frowns and continues playing her guitar. "Reckon it has something to do with what's been happening?"

"Hm?" The nurse straightens up, arms akimbo. "Oh, you mean that weird disease that killed all those people?"

Jobe nods, peering up at Josef with a serious expression so unlike the otherwise buoyant woman.

The nurse sighs and shrugs. "Anything's possible at this point. There's something strange in the air, Jobe. And I don't think it's anything good."

There's a long pause as they both ruminate over his words. Josef is the first to break the silence with a smile and a clap. "Well, I better go get you that pudding! I'll see if there are any sandwiches left as well."

With a grim smile, Jobe watches the nurse hurry out of the room. She turns her attention to Margaret, who is openly staring at her guitar. There's a slight bob of her head with every beat. Jobe's face brightens when she notices this development and she plays a bit louder. "Like that, do you? My grandpa taught me this song. It's called _Sweet Whiskey of Mine_-"

"Jobe?"

Her fingers slip and strikes the wrong chord. Margaret lets out a slight wail, so jarring is the sound. Breath catching in her throat, Jobe turns to see a young woman and an older man standing in the doorway. They are dressed quite well, exuding wealth and luxury. A lord and lady, perhaps.

It takes a moment for her brain to catch up to her eyes.

"_Tom_?" she creaks, eyes widening twofold. She numbly stands and rests her guitar against the rocking chair. "What the _fuck_ are you _wearing_?"

Harry stumbles back, blinking rapidly. He barely registers Draco's hands steadying him from behind. Jobe is here. She's standing right in front of him, looking incredibly pissed off.

And Margaret-

He stares, falling still and silent. Margaret...Mrs. Aldeford...she is sitting hunched in a wheelchair, looking so incredibly small and frail. Eyes glazed and unfocused, drool dripping from her chin. She's nothing like the Margaret Aldeford he knows. Strong, large, and indestructible.

A burning fist grips his chest, sears him from within. An agonising throb starts at the base of his throat, getting larger and more painful with each passing second. He shuffles towards her, hands reaching out for her. Knees knock painfully against one of the wheels, bringing him to a stop. He stares down at her, not able to bring himself to say anything.

But Jobe says it all. "Don't pretend to care now," she spits, all venom. She comes to stand beside the old lady, grasping those thin shoulders protectively. Her coffee eyes flash with barely constrained rage. "Why did you come back? I thought you were long gone by now."

Every word strikes like a stab from a knife, but he doesn't bother defending himself because he knows she's right. He brushes hair from Margaret's face, tucking the white locks carefully behind her ear. Unfocused silvers rise to his dewy emeralds. A wrinkled hand rises to prod at his cheek and tug at his long, curly locks. Her skin is ice cold and soft.

"They found her like this not long after you ditched her. Lying in her own shit and piss." Jobe's expression darkens, turns thunderous. "She was calling for you, you know. But you came too late."

Harry pulls back, head bowed to his chest. Ebony locks fall over his face, hiding his expression. "What happened to her," he rasps, hardly a question.

"No-one knows," Jobe says, coldly. "There were witnesses who claim that a group of people came to visit Midge-Mrs. Aldeford the night you left."

Harry clenches his fists, nails drawing blood from his palms. "Locals?"

"No." Jobe narrows her eyes at Harry, studying his reaction. "You wanna tell me what the fuck is going on, Tom?"

Harry raises his eyes to his old friend's. Confusion, hurt, and anger tugs at her tired face. "It's a long story."

"I've got time," she snaps, patience all but gone.

Harry feels Draco shifting behind him uneasily. He offers the Death Eater a reassuring nod. The man seems unconvinced, but closes the door nonetheless.

"Then I suppose I should tell you what my real name is," Harry begins.

* * *

Hermione watches Ron silently with a suspicious eye. He excused himself from the table momentarily to speak with another auror – Keaton, she thinks his name is. An unsavoury type with a mean sneer whenever he looks at her. He's the kind of man who like to undress women with his eyes – an absolute creep and a pathetic excuse for an auror.

So why would Ron be so well acquainted with such a man?

They speak as if they are old friends, so engaged are they in their discussion. By the way they are furiously gesturing and how serious their expressions are, Hermione can assume they are planning something.

She sighs and downs the rest of her white wine. While they are still technically together, they have grown so far apart over the past few weeks. Ron always seems to be away on some business or another, and Hermione is much too preoccupied with dealing with both her role as an Order member and her work at Hogwarts as the Transfiguration professor.

She can't even remember the last time they were intimate. Frustrations surmounting, Hermione slams her glass down and leans on her elbows, fingers digging into her temples.

"Alright, Hermione?" Charlie says as he sits down in Ron's seat. He sets down a plate of chips and a burger before digging right in.

"Just fine," the brunette says, absently stealing chips from her friend's plate.

"Huh. Little brother of mine's up to no good again?" Charlie comments, following her gaze. He shrugs and stuffs two chips into his mouth. "I'd leave it if I were you. Ron's been nothing but an utter prick lately. Who knows what he's thinking."

"Should I be worried, Charlie?" Hermione asks, nibbling on her stolen goods. "He wouldn't be caught dead speaking to Keaton a month ago...and now look at them!"

"Practically kissing, yeah. I've noticed." Charlie snorts and shakes his head. "Knowing Ron, it's probably something tremendously stupid. But he's stubborn as hell. Nothing we can do or say will make him change his mind."

The witch frowns at Charlie. "What if Molly and Arth-"

"My parents are tired, Hermione. They're struggling to keep their heads above water right now. You know ever since..." He mirrors her frown and averts his gaze. "Well, point is, adding to their problems isn't gonna solve anything."

Hermione sighs again, feeling a tension head ache start in her temples. "I suppose I'll have to deal with it. Whatever it is."

"You know I'm here to help, Hermione." Charlie gives her a fleeting smile as he picks up his burger. "Any luck today on your end?"

The brunette shakes her head, wiping her mouth on a napkin. "A whole month of nothing."

"I hear that," the older Weasley agrees through a mouthful of burger.

"Kingsley's sending us to investigate a sighting down at Godric's Hollow tonight. Will you be coming with us?"

"Yep. Got the letter this morning." Charlie tosses a chip into his mouth and glances about. "Where's Ginny?"

Hermione grimaces. "She didn't want lunch. Charlie," she leans forward, worry creasing her brow. "It will be alright, won't it? Everyone will come out of this okay, won't they?"

The man pauses, chewing thoughtfully. He swallows and gives the witch a kind smile. "I'm sure it's all gonna be fine, Hermione."

She leans back, unconvinced. Her eyes flit to Ron and Keaton, sitting in the shadows of the tavern. "It brings out the worst in us, doesn't it?" she mumbles to herself.

Oblivious, Charlie chomps down on his burger. He decides then and there that this is the best burger he has ever tasted. It's the small joys, he thinks, that makes this war bearable.


	17. Chapter Seventeen: Reunion

**Author's Note: **_Trigger warning for violence, emotional and mental abuse, gaslighting, torture, enslavement, vomit, dissociation, and panic attack. _

**_Wow, that's a long TW. Here's an even longer chapter - my biggest one yet! _**

**_I hope you enjoy this. It was quite difficult to write, but I think the end result wasn't too bad? Hopefully!_**

**_I hope everyone is keeping safe. I send virtual hugs to all who may need it. _**

_**'Til next time.** _

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

**Reunion**

"I'll admit – the dress threw me off." A wry smile cuts into Jobe's cheek as she takes a drag.

Harry's cheeks burn and he squirms a tad, as if he could distance himself from his current predicament. He glances to the window and sees his own reflection – he looks more like a scrawny street rat than a lady now. His glamour must be wearing off.

Within the borders of his reflection, Draco (now looking more his proper age) stands guard on the other side of the glass, arms folded, lips thinned in irritation. Beside him, Margaret stabs him in the side with a crooked finger.

Harry swallows a laugh and quickly turns back to Jobe. "Mind if I bum one?" he asks, holding out two fingers and snipping them together like scissors.

Jobe grunts and reaches behind her ear, producing a wrinkled tailored. She presses the end to the lit ember of her own smoke before passing it over to him.

Harry sucks hard, feeling that satisfying burn in his lungs.

"So...I don't know whether to sucker-punch you or give you a hug," Jobe mutters around her cigarette. Her face pulls tight into a perplexed grimace. "Wizards are fucking weird, man."

The raven huffs a mirthless laugh. "You could put it that way, yeah."

"Y'all are weird, but not so different from us-what was it? Muggles?"

The man nods, flicking ash from his smoke.

"Yeah, muggles," Jobe grumbles. "Magic or not, it's the same bullshit isn't it? Genocide and discrimination. One side or the other. It's just the same bullshit."

"Pretty much." Harry glances at his friend, brows tilted. "Does this mean you believe me?"

"Well, yeah, I suppose so. Don't think you have any reason to lie. And it explains a lot." She squints at the wizard. "You're still an asshole though. Chosen One or not."

His head dips low and he stares at his cigarette. Smoke curls and stings his eyes. "I'm...sorry, Jobe," he says, thickly. "I didn't...I wasn't thinking."

The woman reaches out and ruffles Harry's hair, mussing up his perfect curls. "Obviously." She leans back against the brick wall, cigarette dangling from her lips. "So what's the plan?"

The raven takes another drag and glances over his shoulder. Draco is still staring at him, hawk eyes now burning with barely constrained rage. The old lady has now graduated to kicking the Death Eater in the shins.

"I don't know," he admits. "I thought I could just...wait out this war. But the noose keeps tightening round my neck, Jobe. Sometimes I just...feel like going back. Giving in. It seems so much easier than-"

"Fuck no!" the musician yells, knocking an elbow into Harry's side. "Don't be a dolt, you dolt. You wanna walk your own path? Well, it's not gonna be easy – and I'm saying this from experience. You're gonna have the whole world systematically trying to fuck you up, but you can't throw down your cards too early, man. The way to beat the game is to keep going. What's the point of a finish line if you don't stick around long enough to see it?"

Rubbing his sore ribs, Harry contemplates his friend's words. "But...I don't deserve this life when all those people-"

"Yes you do," Jobe snaps with a scowl. "Anyone who says otherwise is a fucking prick. Look, you're not to blame for those deaths. It's that asshat Voldy-whatsits. You've just been brainwashed your whole life to think you're to blame – which is serious gaslighting if you ask me. Really manipulative bullshit." She flicks her cigarette butt into a bush. "It's the same crap my parents tried to pull on me for years. Until I wised up and got out of there."

Harry falls silent. He takes his last drag and drops it to the ground. Crushes it under his heel.

"Look, Tom...Harry...whatever-your-name-is. You don't have to pick sides. You don't have choose whether you wanna live with mummy or daddy – you got a third option too. Living by yourself. Finding your own path. There are always options, if you look hard enough."

The wizard gives his friend a small smile. It's the same thing that Draco has been telling him this whole time. Forget about what the Order wants. He would not hold himself responsible for something he had no hand in. If that makes him selfish, then so be it.

"Ask her where I am," Gideon hisses suddenly from his right. A ghostly nudge. "I wanna see if she carved a giant dick into my headstone, just like I asked."

"...Where is...where is Gideon-" Harry swallows the rest of his words, feeling the most uncomfortable prickle crawl up his neck.

"He's where every other poor fuck is buried in Aldeford. Does it matter?" Jobe says, brusquely, her eyes fixed on the tall gate between them and the road.

The dead man frowns at Harry and shakes his head, worried eyes shifting over to his old travelling partner.

"I suppose not," Harry mumbles, clutching at his skirt. "I just...was it-"

"Just stop." Jobe turns her blazing gaze at the shamefaced man. "Just stop it, alright? It's over and done with and I'm too damn tired to deal with this right now. I don't have the capacity to give you the validation you're looking for."

Heart stuttering, Harry nods mutely.

"Yeah, she's really pissed off, huh?" Gideon muses, clapping a reassuring hand onto Harry's shoulder. "Just give her time. She's still hurting bad."

Jobe rolls her eyes at Harry and flicks a stray dreadlock out of her face. "Anyway, now that you're here, you may as well help me."

The raven glances up, eyes wide and blinking. "With what?"

"Midge," the woman says, jabbing a thumb in the old lady's direction. "Maybe you can figure out what happened to her. And maybe...maybe you can fix her."

Harry simply takes another drag, heart heavy and feeling more helpless than he's ever felt in a long, long time.

* * *

With the concrete swagger of a seasoned executioner, she scans the soldiers standing at attention. There's around fifteen of them, all highly trained aurors with a penchant for efficiency. She's someone else now, someone ruthless. There is only one thing she sees and her determination is aged amber, fatalistic evermore. She clings onto that confidence and loses herself in it. Her heart is flint. Her present is all that is.

"Do whatever you have to do," Ginny barks, pacing before her soldiers. "The traitor is out there, armed and dangerous. He will do whatever it takes to ensure his freedom and that means you have to do whatever it takes to ensure his capture. There's no use for bleeding hearts in my taskforce. All of you are proficient in healing and obliviation – so _use it. _Collateral damage will be inevitable." Steely eyes flit from face to face. "If you have a problem with that, then leave. I have no use for you."

None of her soldiers dare to breathe as she challenges them. Impassive faces stare straight ahead. Not a muscle moves. Like insects caught in resin, they are statues now – prompted to life only by her command. Her smile fails to reach her eyes.

"Team one – start from the tavern, work your way west. Team two – you're in the outskirts. Comb through the farms and the forest. Team three – you're with me. We'll be working our way out from the town square. Remember, the traitor is in disguise and he has backup. I believe it may be a Death Eater." She rattles out her orders like gunfire, every team readying their wands in affirmation. "No stone left unturned. No-one left unquestioned. _No matter what._"

* * *

Hermione folds the last of her clothes and places it into her charmed handbag.

"Ron," she calls, glancing around the room to make sure she hadn't forgotten anything. "Ron, are you all packed?"

"'mione, d'you know where I put my bloody bag?" comes an irritated growl from the bathroom. "It's not in here either, dammit-"

The witch frowns and immediately ducks down to check under the bed.

"It's under the bed, Ron-"

"Hermione! Ron!" A hurried knock raps against the door. Before Hermione could open her mouth to call them in, the door bursts open and a pale faced Charlie strides in. He heads straight for the window without even glancing at the brunette or the hassled wizard who emerges from the bathroom.

"What the fuck, Charlie?" Ron grumbles, wiping his wet hands on his robes.

The older Weasley says nothing. Instead, he stands at the window and stares out with the most serious expression.

Ron clamps up immediately and moves to his brother's side.

Oh no, Hermione thinks, joining the two men. What now?

What meets their eyes is utter chaos. In the village beyond, they can see smoke rising from a few of the houses as blazes rage unbridled. Robed figures sweep through the streets, grabbing muggles left and right, shooting spells without prejudice. Villagers appear terrified, angered, confused by the sudden attack.

Ron whips out his wand, knuckles white. "_Death Eaters_!" he hisses, eyes narrowing.

"No," Charlie monotones. He raises a finger and points to one of the robed figures, flying around on a broom. They seem to be the leader, directing the others from their perch.

Hermione tries to focus her eyes on the flying figure, heart pounding a mile a minute. "_Oh no_," she gasps, hands clutching the window frame. The telltale red atop the figure's head is unmistakable.

"_Ginny_," Ron whispers, looking like a stunned mullet. He leans back on his heels and glances to his brother. "What's she doing?"

"Looking for Harry," Charlie says, grimly. "She's called her taskforce together and now they're doing anything to capture him." He bows his head, teeth grinding together. "I can't believe she would stoop to this level."

"We have to stop her!" Hermione cries, wand in hand. "There's no time to talk!"

Charlie intakes deeply and raises his head. He nods at the witch. "Ron, grab Keaton. Find Ginny and try to talk sense into her. Hermione and I will go to Kingsley. We'll bring the backup. Remember our training - focus first on neutralising the threat. Then dealing with the muggles." With that, he strides out the room, determination cut into his pale face.

Hermione starts to follow him when she realises her boyfriend isn't following. She glances back with an impatient frown. "Ron? What's wrong?"

The younger Weasley is still staring out the window, wand now held loosely at his side. He's silent for a moment, then finally says, "We need to find the traitor."

"Yes, and we will, Ron. I promise. But we have to stop Ginny first-"

"Maybe we shouldn't," Ron says, loudly. He turns to the witch with a guarded expression. "Maybe she's doing what should have been done already."

Hermione lets out a sharp sigh, looking more impatient by the second. "You can't possibly mean that, Ron. Now stop joking around, we need to deal with this-"

"I'm not joking Hermione. I mean it. I think we should be _helping _her, not-"

For the first time since they were children, Hermione proffers Ron an expression of utter disgust. She looks at him as if he were a stranger; as if he emits a stench most foul. He swallows the rest of his words and steps back instinctively. His back hits the window frame.

"_Death Eaters_," Hermione hisses, eyes flashing in pure, white rage. "You thought they were Death Eaters." Her burning stare lingers on the red head, muted only by the glistening of unshed tears.

"'mione-"

But she's already spinning on her heels and storming out, leaving behind a rather red faced Ron Weasley.

* * *

Josef would tell just about anyone who would listen how much he loves his job. Sure, there were parts of his work that most would find extremely difficult to deal with. But Josef enjoys all aspect of his work – because it's not about him or his sensibilities. It's about his clients and how he can make them smile. He sees each and every one of his clients as if they were his own grandparents or his own parents. He never really had a family, so in lieu, his clients became more than just clients. They are his entire world.

Margaret, his most critical case, is a special one. Despite her illness, he can see the life and strength within those glassy eyes. They hit it off from the moment they met like Bonny and Clyde, John Lennon and Paul McCartney, Cheech and Chong...so and on and on. She wouldn't have any other nurse. If anyone other than Josef tries to approach her, she would scream bloody murder. It would have to be Josef or nothing would get done.

While he acts rather concerned about this selectivity, Josef can't help but feel warm at the thought. Margaret picked him! He had become someone's rock.

Yes, she has him wrapped around her little finger, and he doesn't mind at all.

He ambles down the hallway back towards Margaret's room, a paper bag in hand. Inside, there are two pudding cups and four large sandwiches. He likes to keep Jobe well fed whenever she comes by. At least fatten the woman up whenever he has the chance.

"Excuse me," a cold voice suddenly hits the back of his head.

Josef spins on his heels and finds himself face to face with a rather stunning red headed woman. She is dressed in what appears to be a robe and has a stick in hand. Her face is quite pale however, and the nurse spots deep bags of exhaustion under her steely gaze. Concern flutters.

"Yes? How can I help you?" he says, offering her a warm smile.

The woman is unmoved. She raises the stick and points it at Josef. "We are looking for a man. He's rather short and skinny. He has green eyes and glasses, and he has black hair. He might be in a dress. Have you seen anyone who might fit this description?" The woman's voice is toneless and her words are like bullets, sharp and short.

Josef blinks and cocks his head to the side. That sounds like...he swallows, feeling his stomach churn. Something doesn't feel right. "No, I can't say that I have, ma'am," he lies through a smile. "Why are you looking for this person? Are you the police?"

The red head narrows her eyes at the nurse. From behind her appears four similarly dressed people. They all have sticks and a cold glint in their eyes.

"Sir, there's nothing but the reception and the kitchen on this floor," a burly robed man tells the red head. "Should we go up to the second?"

The red head flexes her shoulders and gives a quick wave of her hand in affirmation. "You do just that. Flores, you're with me."

An incredibly tall woman quickly moves to her leader's side. "Yes, sir," she booms, dropping her strange orange gaze down at the befuddled nurse.

As the others rush up the stairs in the fire escape, Josef begins to hear the sound of screams and mayhem from above. Dread grips his chest and churns his gut. This isn't right. This isn't right at all.

He focuses his attention on the ostensible leader and her goon. "Now see here, I don't think you should be doing this." He points a finger at her, tone stern and clear – it's the same one he uses on misbehaving clients. "There's no need to frighten our residents. If you need to find this person, I suggest you go to the police and file a missing person's-"

"_Imperio." _The taller woman hisses, waving the stick in the air.

Josef suddenly slumps as all tension and anxiety drains from him entirely. A strange calm washes over him, settling his heart. A dreamy smile sweep across the man's face and he looks to the two women before him with no expectation and no thought.

Something whispers to him from deep within, urgent and awfully frightened. But it is soon drowned out by the red head's voice.

* * *

"Are you quite finished?" Malfoy frowns at them as they re-enter the room.

Jobe raises a brow at the Death Eater and she wheels Margaret away from him. "Got a stick up your ass or summin', mate?"

Harry opens the old lady's wardrobe and rummages inside, grabbing a large suitcase to pack. The blonde shoots daggers at the mouthy woman before striding over to the raven.

"How much did you tell her, Potter?" he hisses, leaning over the smaller man.

Harry doesn't spare Draco a glance, so focused is he on gathering his old benefactor's things. "Don't worry, I didn't tell her anything about you. I just said that you were my bodyguard."

"Body-" Draco's lips thin in displeasure as he straightens up. "Careful, Potter. Need I remind you that your life is very much in my hands?"

"Yeah, yeah. Can you grab whatever's in the dresser?" Harry tosses a large bag behind his shoulder and it lands at the Death Eater's feet. "Anything that look important, just shove it in the bag. And be quick about it."

"Are you giving me orders?" Draco bristles, giving the bag a kick. "I will not stoop to such-" The rest of his sentence is choked off when Jobe elbows him aside.

She picks up the bag and gives the man an incredulous look. "Are you serious, mate? If you're gonna just stand there and bitch all day, why don't you go outside and keep an eye out, huh?"

Two pink blotches bloom in Malfoy's cheeks. The man heaves and swells, ready to offset a barrage of thorny words, when a scream cuts through the air. Draco deflates suddenly and tenses, sharp eyes flitting to the door.

Jobe and Harry freeze and glance at the ceiling. Another scream, then another. Hard thuds and the thunderous cracks of furniture breaking. Footsteps running this way and that.

Harry blanches and drops the suitcase, doe eyes searching out the blonde's. The latter is only focused on the door as he slowly slides it open, wand in hand.

He doesn't need to pull it far, however, as it slams open from a force unseen. It smashes into the wall, sending a shower of plaster over the floor.

Draco staggers back, a curse falling from his lips.

In the doorway, stands Ginny Weasley, all ice queen and deadly ire. Behind her is a giant woman with orange eyes, holding Josef by the scruff.

Harry gapes at Ginny, limbs shaking, pallor tinged with green. He takes a jerky step back into Jobe, who quickly wraps a protective arm around his shaking form.

The Death Eater backpedals also, wand out, coming to stand between Harry and the aurors. Cool greys betray nothing as he glances between the soldiers.

"Ah. Weasley. I thought you would have learned some manners by now," he says, voice silken, face impassive save for the arrogant lift of the chin.

The red had narrows her eyes at Harry, though her words are directed at the Death Eater. "Lay down your wand. If you make me say it again, I will kill you."

Harry can barely recognise her. She looks sick and hateful. The look she gives him is nothing he's ever seen before – not from her. "...Ginny," he croaks, ignoring Jobe's hissed protests. "Ginny, you don't have to do this."

"Quiet, Potter," Draco warns, raising his wand a tad. "You cannot reason with someone like-"

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

Shocking green fills the room as the killing curse barrels towards Harry. Draco whips his wand back in defense, but as he casts his spell, a great, ear-shattering CRACK snaps against the air.

Both spells miss, hit the opposite walls. Plaster and mortar explodes and fills the air with a plume of white.

Draco throws himself behind the bed, glancing around quickly for Potter.

Nothing. Potter is gone, along with the muggles, leaving Draco to deal with the murderous Weasley alone.

"How did you do it, Death Eater?" Ginny calls from the thick of the haze. "How did you manage to brainwash him into betraying us? Did you use the imperius on him?"

Draco scoffs, eyes squinted against the dust. "You can be quite assured, Weasley," he calls back, "Potter needed no more convincing from us. You see, we let him make his own choices – a rare freedom while he was with you, I'm sure."

"Then that makes him as despicable as you," the witch spits, tone venomous. "The fact that he chose to betray us by his own volition." A smile enters her words. "I thank you, Death Eater. For giving me the final strength I need. Now I can kill him with no hesitation. And no regrets."

"How you can kill a man you once lay with is beyond me," Draco says, searching the haze for tell-tale movement.

"Don't you dare moralise to me, Death Eater. I've seen your handiwork. Did you enjoy killing all those muggles?"

A shadow moves to his left. He raises his wand, killing curse on the tip of his tongue-

Ah shit. The muggle. Josef, was it? Potter's face, with those accusatory eyes, round and green...they grip him tight and unyielding.

Even if he killed the muggle, how would Potter know? This death would not be seen by the Dark Lord, therefore Potter would be blind to it also. He can always blame Weasley...more fodder for his cause...

Draco lets out a sharp sigh and sweeps his wand. "_Expelliarmus!"_

The red light dissipates into the haze. A hard grunt. The clatter of a wand.

There's a faint groan and sharp gasp. "Oh, dear me...What-what's going on?"

"I advise you to run for it, muggle," Draco calls to Josef, who appears to be free from the curse. "The giant may turn you into her supper."

A nervous stutter follows hurried footsteps out of the room. None of the aurors move to stop him, their focus entirely on the man behind the bed.

"I don't think you realise how serious this is, Death Eater," Ginny says, inching ever closer. She kicks over the dropped wand towards the disarmed soldier. Flores picks it up with a quiet nod of thanks. "This ends badly for you and the traitor if you should continue to defy us. But if you come quietly, I'm sure the Minister would consider a pardon-"

"The time for making friends is long gone, Weasley. Hogwarts is far behind us." At this point, Draco swallows his pride and starts considering disapparation. He needs to find Harry. And fast. But before he does... "I would like to say one thing however. You are right that Potter has betrayed you. His betrayal is in fact far reaching than that. It is not mere cowardice that led him to walk away. It is, in fact, _loyalty." _The Death Eater smirks to himself. "You can tell your precious Order that Harry Potter has become loyal to the Dark Lord. He is ours, Weasley, and nothing you do will ever change that fact. Not even the threat of death."

As another green light fills the room, Draco Malfoy leaps to his feet and turns, disapparating with a sweep of his fine, gentleman's coat.

* * *

Retching and strained cursing fills his ears as he drops to his knees. Behind him, Jobe attempts to hold back the surge of vomit rising in her gullet.

Margaret, on the other hand, sits calmly in her wheelchair, humming a quiet tune to herself.

Harry leans back on his haunches, staring blankly out the open barn doors. The country green fields are dark and quiet. A heavy mist hangs in the warm spring air – suffocating and imposing.

He seems unable to catch his breath. His shaking form is sweat drenched and freezing. It's too close. Too dangerous. Not just for him, but for Margaret. For Jobe. He almost got them _killed._

"Goddamn!" Jobe yelps, spitting out excess bile into the straw. "What just happened?"

Harry glances at his friend, feeling numb. "...I'm sorry. It was...she was..." He swallows thickly. Ginny. Oh, Ginny! Whatever happened to you?

Jobe sees the man struggling and her expression softens. She crouches beside him and pats his back reassuringly. "It's fine. We don't have to do this now." A quick glance around brings her back with a troubled face. "Where's your bodyguard?"

_Draco._

Feeling his heart stutter, Harry gets to his feet unsteadily. A cold terror seizes him at the thought of the man battling the aurors alone. How could he leave him like that? What if he-

"Harry? Are you alright?"

Jobe's voice rouses him from his panicked thoughts. He gives her a weak smile. "Look after Margaret...please..."

Jobe nods, moving to grasp the old lady's shoulders as she gives her friend a wide eyed look. "Are you going back? Could you look for Josef too, while you're there? Do you think he's okay? Maybe I should come with you-"

"No," Harry says, firmly. His voice is more confident than he feels. "I'll be back soon. Stay inside the barn." A pause as he considers his friends-no, his _family._ "If I don't return by sunset, I want you to leave Aldeford. Go to another town, another country. Anywhere but here. Understand?"

Jobe frowns, brow valleying. She opens her mouth to protest, and heatedly so, but another ear-shattering CRACK snatches the words from her throat. Where Harry once stood, now there is nothing. Nothing but the warm imprint of his feet.

* * *

The streets are burning and wrecked. Stunned muggles lie strewn about, others stumble through the smoke, eyes glazed and lost. What was once a boring, quiet village, had been transformed into a war zone within minutes. Aurors shout to one another as they search through the houses and interrogate villagers. Ron watches with narrowed eyes as an auror slaps an old man around the face, barking questions as she does so.

"Your sister's got guts," Keaton says, tone one of awe. "I expect bleeding heart Shacklebolt and his puppy, Longbottom, to have some words about this."

"Fuck 'em," Ron growls, stomping past a burning car. "If we don't take a hard stance, we'll just waste another month sitting on our dicks in this shitty town."

"Strong words, Ronald. It's easy to talk the talk-"

"Shut up, Keaton. Focus on the job and keep your eyes front." Ron scowls at the sneering man, ears turning a bright red. He's right, of course. For all his planning and plotting, Ginny had beat him to the punch. It's humiliating, being shown up by his own baby sister. But a part of him is glad that he didn't have to take the first step off the edge.

Amidst the racket and the chaos, the all too familiar sound of an apparition draws Ron's attention to his right. It came from an alleyway, hidden in the shadows and thick plumes of smoke.

"Keaton. Alleyway." He draws his wand and strides into the alley, his grumbling partner following close behind.

* * *

The heel snaps and his ankle bends under him. He lets out a pained shout as he falls, shoulder slamming into the brick wall. Blazing fire shoots up his leg and he shifts on his bottom, trying to ease the weight off his injured ankle.

"Oh, great," he mutters, tears prickling his eyes. "And I have no wand! Goddammit, Malfoy."

Shaking hands rub at the already swelling ankle and he glances around, trying to figure out his location. When his eyes land on the crusted puddle of vomit, he lets out a high pitched giggle. Back to the start, he thinks, unable to contain the hysteria bubbling up within. I've come back to the start like none of this ever happened!

"Finally lost your mind, huh?" Ron says with a savage grin. He steps in the dried vomit without a care, constricted blues capturing Harry with a predatory gleam.

As if his terror fled with the piss now drenching his skirts, Harry gives the two aurors a giddy grin. "Wouldn't that be lovely?" he says, voice all too loud and much too high. "Wouldn't that just be fucking peachy?"

Ron's lips twists in disgust as he glances down at the raven's soiled dress. "I thought you looked familiar. What was it then, a glamour?"

"Look, Ronald. The traitor's pissed himself!" Keaton sniggers and tucks away his wand, no longer considering the raven a threat. "Let's bring him in, then. He's worth more alive than dead, isn't he? Maybe gets some intel outta him."

"Why not?" the red head says, smirk distorting his features. While he doesn't stow away his wand, he lowers it to his side, head cocked as he considers Harry. "But first..."

The former Chosen One finds himself in a thick haze, something akin to smoke, perhaps. The distance between him and the reality before him widens, until it seems as if he is watching himself from afar. He can no longer feel the lukewarm wetness in his skirts. He can no longer smell the acrid smoke and hear the mayhem beyond the alleyway. Fear touches him not, neither does the hysteria that gripped him mere moments ago. No, all he feels is an eternal numbness, leaving him without body or mind.

So he doesn't even register the pain when the two aurors begin kicking him to the ground. Nor does he feel anything when Ron, someone he had once considered his own brother, beats him across the face with savage delight. When Keaton casts the cruciatus curse on him, he registers his body flailing and writhing – but no sensation reaches him.

In the darkness of the fog, he senses something watching him. A cool hand reaches out and touches him. A slow burn spreads across his forehead, emanating from his scar – but the pain is one of anger not his own.

A face dips into his consciousness – handsome and refined. With two serpentine eyes that pierce his very soul. The flash of fangs. A great snake, rearing her head. A snake unfamiliar to him.

The face melds into another, one familiar. One that brings him much ease and comfort. Blonde locks are mussed. Grey eyes wide and frightened. Frightened?

An expression he's never seen before on that face. That wonderful face. It's an expression he decides he doesn't want to see again.

_Potter? Potter, can you hear me? Harry! Wake up!_

Margaret, he tries to tell him. Margaret and Jobe are in the barn. They are in the barn...

_Alright, calm yourself. I will take care of them later. _

Don't hurt them, please! He tries to raise his arms, to stop him, but he can't feel any of his limbs.

_I will not hurt them, Potter. Calm yourself, lest you further injure yourself. We need to leave, now!_

Leave...leave? Where were they? What happened?

But already, he's drifting further into the fog, the darkness descending upon him like a thick blanket. For the briefest moment, he feels strong arms wrap around him and carry him – and he's a child again, held securely in his father's arms. Warmth radiates through him and he's so terribly happy, and so terribly sad.

And then, like a wind snatching the candle flame, Harry Potter disappears.


End file.
